IC-NRLF 


B    3 


THE  WRITINGS  OF 
HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU 

IN   TWENTY  VOLUMES 
VOLUME   I 


MANUSCRIPT  EDITION 
LIMITED  TO  SIX  HUNDRED  COPIES 
NUMBER     /b~ 


Harebells  (page  92) 


THE  Y 

>AVID  THOREAU 


Carlisle  fieach,  Concord  Riv&r 


THE   WRITINGS   OF 
HENKY  DAVID  THOKEAU 

A  WEEK    ON  THE 

CONCORD  AND  MERRIMACK 

RIVERS 


BOSTON  AND    NEW  YORK 
HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
MDCCCCVI 


LIBRAE'/  j 

OF  CALIFC2J1U 
DAVIS 


COPYRIGHT    1893    AND    1906    BY    HOUGHTON,    MIFFLIN    &    CO. 

All  rights  reserved 


PUBLISHERS'  ADVERTISEMENT 

THIS  edition  of  the  writings  of  Thoreau  is  complete 
in  a  way  which  was  impossible  in  the  case  of  all  pre 
vious  editions,  for  it  contains  his  entire  Journal,  which 
has  only  recently  become  available  for  publication. 
The  four  volumes  of  selections  from  the  Journal  edited 
by  his  friend  and  correspondent,  Mr.  H.  G.  O.  Blake, 
into  whose  hands  the  manuscript  volumes  passed  on 
the  death  of  Thoreau's  sister  Sophia,  contained  only 
a  small  part  of  the  whole,  and  reflected  to  some  extent, 
as  was  inevitable,  the  tastes  and  interests  of  the  editor. 
Moreover,  the  manner  chosen  for  presenting  the  extracts 
afforded  no  such  complete  view  of  Thoreau's  daily  life 
and  the  development  of  his  genius  as  is  now  obtainable 
from  the  entire  Journal,  printed  in  the  strictly  chrono 
logical  form,  just  as  it  was  written. 

The  writings  divide  themselves  naturally  into  two 
sections,  the  Works  and  the  Journal,  the  former  con 
taining  the  books,  essays,  lectures,  addresses,  and  poems 
which  Thoreau  himself  prepared,  more  or  less  com 
pletely,  for  publication.  (The  Letters  have  for  con 
venience  also  been  included  in  this  section.)  But  while 
this  division  is  natural  when  the  writings  are  viewed  in 
their  present  form,  there  is  really  no  inherent  difference 
between  the  two  sections,  for  all  Thoreau's  works  — 
the  two  books  that  he  printed  during  his  lifetime,  as  well 
as  the  volumes  compiled  after  his  death  from  his  pub- 


vi         PUBLISHERS'  ADVERTISEMENT 

lished  and  unpublished  essays  and  addresses  —  were 
drawn  almost  entirely  from  his  Journal,  the  thoughts 
and  observations  there  recorded  from  day  to  day  being 
revised  and  reshaped  to  fit  them  for  their  more  perma 
nent  form.  By  far  the  greater  part  of  the  earlier  Journals, 
drawn  on  in  the  writing  of  "  A  Week  on  the  Concord  and 
Merrimack  Rivers  "  and  "  Walden,"  appears  to  have 
been  destroyed  by  Thoreau  in  the  process;  but  enough 
remains  fortunately  to  show  something  of  the  author's 
methods  of  work,  and  the  reader  will  find  it  interesting 
to  compare  the  published  passages  indicated  in  the 
footnotes  to  the  Journal  with  the  original  entries,  to  see 
the  conditions  under  which  the  matter  was  first  written 
and  observe  the  alterations  made  in  adapting  the  par 
ticular  to  the  general  and  giving  the  substance  a  more 
perfect  literary  form. 

Besides  the  portraits  which  are  an  indispensable 
accompaniment  of  such  a  definitive  edition,  and  the 
numerous  rude  cuts,  copied  faithfully  from  Thoreau's 
own  sketches,  which  will  be  found  in  the  Journal,  the 
illustrations  consist  of  photogravures  of  scenes  and 
objects  described  by  Thoreau.  For  these  pictures  the 
reader  is  indebted  to  Mr.  Herbert  W.  Gleason,  whose 
services  in  illustrating  this  edition  the  Publishers  count 
themselves  especially  fortunate  in  securing.  Mr.  Glea 
son  has  made  a  careful  study  of  all  Thoreau's  writings, 
including  the  manuscript  Journal,  and  has  explored 
with  equal  thoroughness  the  woods  and  fields  of  Con 
cord,  visiting  the  localities  mentioned  in  the  Journal  and 
getting  photographs,  not  only  of  the  places  themselves, 
but  also  of  many  of  the  fleeting  phenomena  of  the 


PUBLISHERS'  ADVERTISEMENT         vii 

natural  year  in  the  very  spots  where  Thoreau  observed 
them.  He  has  even  succeeded  in  identifying  a  number 
of  localities  described  and  named  by  Thoreau  which  had 
previously  been  unknown  to  any  person  now  living  in 
Concord.  He  has  also  followed  Thoreau  in  his  wider 
wanderings,  and  his  portfolio  includes  views  of  Cape 
Cod,  the  Maine  woods,  and  the  banks  of  the  Merrimack 
River.  It  will  be  apparent  that  Mr.  Gleason's  pictures 
are  in  the  fullest  sense  illustrations  of  the  text  which 
they  accompany. 

The  Riverside  Edition  of  1893  is  the  basis  of  the 
present  edition  of  Thoreau's  Works,  but  to  secure  a 
more  compact  form  several  changes  in  arrangement 
have  been  necessary.  Emerson's  Biographical  Sketch, 
originally  published  in  "Excursions,"  and  in  the  River 
side  Edition  transferred  to  the  volume  entitled  "Mis 
cellanies,"  is  now  printed  at  the  beginning  of  this  first 
volume,  "A  Week  on  the  Concord  and  Merrimack 
Rivers,"  as  a  most  fitting  introduction  to  the  complete 
works  of  his  friend.  "Walden"  and  "The  Maine 
Woods  "  are  printed  without  change.  The  prose  papers 
included  in  the  Riverside  volume  entitled  "Miscella 
nies  "  are  now  added  to  "  Cape  Cod,"  while  the  Poems 
appear  with  "Excursions"  in  Volume  V.  The  sixth 
volume  contains  the  "  Familiar  Letters  "  and  a  General 
Index  to  the  Works.  The  four  volumes  of  "  Journal " 
extracts  edited  by  Mr.  Blake,  — "  Early  Spring  in 
Massachusetts,"  "Summer,"  "Autumn,"  and  "Win 
ter,"  —  being  superseded  by  the  publication  of  the  com 
plete  Journal,  are  not  included  in  the  present  edition. 


CONTENTS 

THE  SUB-TITLES  UNDER  EACH   DIVISION  AEE   OF  THOREAU'S 
POEMS    AND    SNATCHES    OF    VERSE    THEREIN    INCLUDED 

BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  BY  R.  W.  EMERSON    PAGE  xv 

INTRODUCTORY   NOTE  xu 

CONCORD    RIVER  3 

The  respectable  folks  7 

SATURDAY  12 

Ah,  't  is  in  vain  the  peaceful  din  15 

Here  then  an  aged  shepherd  dwelt  16 

On  Ponkawtasset,  since  we  took  our  way  16 

SUNDAY  42 

An  early  unconverted  Saint  42 

Low  in  the  eastern  sky  46 

Dong,  sounds  the  brass  in  the  east  50 

Greece,  who  am  I  that  should  remember  thee  54 

Some  tumultuous  little  rill  62 

I  make  ye  an  offer  69 

Conscience  is  instinct  bred  in  the  house  75 

Such  water  do  the  gods  distill  86 

That  Phaeton  of  our  day  103 

MONDAY  121 

Though  all  the  fates  should  prove  unkind  151 

With  frontier  strength  ye  stand  your  ground  170 

The  western  wind  came  lumbering  in  180 


x  CONTENTS 

Then  idle  Time  ran  gadding  by  181 

Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour  182 

RUMORS  FROM  AN  ^£OLIAN  HARP  184 

Away  I  away/  away  I  away  I  186 

TUESDAY  188 

Ply  the  oars  !  away  I  away  1  188 

Since  that  first  "Away  I  away  I "  200 

Low-anchored  cloud  201 

Man's  little  acts  are  grand  224 
The  waves  slowly  beat 

Woof  of  the  sun,  ethereal  gauze  229 

Where  gleaming  fields  of  haze  234 

TRANSLATIONS  FROM  ANACREON  240 

Thus,  perchance,  the  Indian  hunter  247 

WEDNESDAY  249 

My  life  is  like  a  strott  upon  the  beach  255 

This  is  my  Carnac,  whose  unmeasured  dome  267 

True  kindness  is  a  pure  divine  affinity  275 

Lately,  alas,  I  knew  a  gentle  boy  276 

THE  ATLANTIDES  278 

My  love  must  be  as  free  297 

The  Good  how  can  we  trust  298 

Nature  doth  have  her  dawn  each  day  302 

Let  such  pure  hate  still  underprop  305 

THE  INWARD  MORNING  313 

THURSDAY  317 

My  books  I  'd  fain  cast  off,  I  cannot  read  320 

FRIDAY  356 

THE  POET'S  DELAY  366 

/  hearing  get  who  had  but  ears  372 

Men  dig  and  dive  but  cannot  my  wealth  spend  373 

Salmon  Brook  375 


CONTENTS  xi 

Oft,  as  I  turn  me  on  my  pillow  o'er  884 

1  am  the  autumnal  sun  404 

A  finer  race  and  finer  fed  407 

I  am  a  parcel  of  vain  strivings  tied  410 

All  things  are  current  found  415 

TABLE    OF   POETICAL    QUOTATIONS  423 

INDEX  429 


A  SHEET  OF  THOREAU  S  AUTOGRAPH  MANUSCRIPT 
IS  INSERTED    IN  THE    FRONT   OF  THIS  VOLUME 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

HAREBELLS,    Carbon  photograph  (page  92)  Frontispiece 

CARLISLE   REACH,    CONCORD   RIVER,   Colored  plate 
HENRY    DAVID     THOREAU,    FROM    THE    DA 
GUERREOTYPE    TAKEN    BY    MOXHAM    OF 
WORCESTER   ABOUT   1855  1 

CARLISLE   REACH,    CONCORD    RIVER  44 

WILLIAMSTOWN    FROM    SADDLE-BACK   MOUN 
TAIN  (GREYLOCK)  198 

DISTANT    VIEW    OF   UNCANNUNUO  206 

THE    MERRIMAC    AT    GOFF?S    FALLS  250 

ON   THE    BANKS    OF   THE    MERRIMAC  372 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

BY  R.  W.  EMERSON 

HENRY  DAVID  THOREAU  was  the  last  male  descend 
ant  of  a  French  ancestor  who  came  to  this  country 
from  the  Isle  of  Guernsey.  His  character  exhibited 
occasional  traits  drawn  from  this  blood  in  singular 
combination  with  a  very  strong  Saxon  genius. 

He  was  born  in  Concord,  Massachusetts,  on  the 
12th  of  July,  1817.  He  was  graduated  at  Harvard  Col 
lege  in  1837,  but  without  any  literary  distinction.  An 
iconoclast  in  literature,  he  seldom  thanked  colleges  for 
their  service  to  him,  holding  them  in  small  esteem,  whilst 
yet  his  debt  to  them  was  important.  After  leaving  the 
University,  he  joined  his  brother  in  teaching  a  private 
school,  which  he  soon  renounced.  His  father  was  a 
manufacturer  of  lead-pencils,  and  Henry  applied  him 
self  for  a  time  to  this  craft,  believing  he  could  make 
a  better  pencil  than  was  then  in  use.  After  completing 
his  experiments,  he  exhibited  his  work  to  chemists  and 
artists  in  Boston,  and  having  obtained  their  certificates 
to  its  excellence  and  to  its  equality  with  the  best  London 
manufacture,  he  returned  home  contented.  His  friends 
congratulated  him  that  he  had  now  opened  his  way  to 
fortune.  But  he  replied  that  he  should  never  make 
another  pencil.  "  Why  should  I  ?  I  would  not  do  again 
what  I  have  done  once."  He  resumed  his  endless  walks 


xvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

and  miscellaneous  studies,  making  every  day  some  new 
acquaintance  with  Nature,  though  as  yet  never  speaking 
of  zoology  or  botany,  since,  though  very  studious  of 
natural  facts,  he  was  incurious  of  technical  and  textual 
science. 

At  this  time,  a  strong,  healthy  youth,  fresh  from  col 
lege,  whilst  all  his  companions  were  choosing  their  pro 
fession,  or  eager  to  begin  some  lucrative  employment,  it 
was  inevitable  that  his  thoughts  should  be  exercised  on 
the  same  question,  and  it  required  rare  decision  to  refuse 
all  the  accustomed  paths,  and  keep  his  solitary  freedom 
at  the  cost  of  disappointing  the  natural  expectations  of 
his  family  and  friends :  all  the  more  difficult  that  he  had 
a  perfect  probity,  was  exact  in  securing  his  own  inde 
pendence,  and  in  holding  every  man  to  the  like  duty. 
But  Thoreau  never  faltered.  He  was  a  born  protestant. 
He  declined  to  give  up  his  large  ambition  of  knowledge 
and  action  for  any  narrow  craft  or  profession,  aiming  at 
a  much  more  comprehensive  calling,  the  art  of  living 
well.  If  he  slighted  and  defied  the  opinions  of  others,  it 
was  only  that  he  was  more  intent  to  reconcile  his  prac 
tice  with  his  own  belief.  Never  idle  or  self-indulgent,  he 
preferred,  when  he  wanted  money,  earning  it  by  some 
piece  of  manual  labor  agreeable  to  him,  as  building  a 
boat  or  a  fence,  planting,  grafting,  surveying,  or  other 
short  work,  to  any  long  engagements.  With  his  hardy 
habits  and  few  wants,  his  skill  in  wood-craft,  and  his 
powerful  arithmetic,  he  was  very  competent  to  live  in 
any  part  of  the  world.  It  would  cost  him  less  time  to 
supply  his  wants  than  another.  He  was  therefore  secure 
of  his  leisure. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xvii 

A  natural  skill  for  mensuration,  growing  out  of  his 
mathematical  knowledge  and  his  habit  of  ascertaining 
the  measures  and  distances  of  objects  which  interested 
him,  the  size  of  trees,  the  depth  and  extent  of  ponds  and 
rivers,  the  height  of  mountains,  and  the  air-line  distance 
of  his  favorite  summits,  —  this,  and  his  intimate  know 
ledge  of  the  territory  about  Concord,  made  him  drift 
into  the  profession  of  land-surveyor.  It  had  the  advan 
tage  for  him  that  it  led  him  continually  into  new  and 
secluded  grounds,  and  helped  his  studies  of  Nature. 
His  accuracy  and  skill  in  this  work  were  readily  appre 
ciated,  and  he  found  all  the  employment  he  wanted. 

He  could  easily  solve  the  problems  of  the  surveyor, 
but  he  was  daily  beset  with  graver  questions,  which  he 
manfully  confronted.  He  interrogated  every  custom,  and 
wished  to  settle  all  his  practice  on  an  ideal  foundation. 
He  was  a  protestant  a  entrance,  and  few  lives  contain  so 
many  renunciations.  He  was  bred  to  no  profession ;  he 
never  married;  he  lived  alone;  he  never  went  to  church; 
he  never  voted;  he  refused  to  pay  a  tax  to  the  State;  he 
ate  no  flesh,  he  drank  no  wine,  he  never  knew  the  use  of 
tobacco;  and,  though  a  naturalist,  he  used  neither  trap 
nor  gun.  He  chose,  wisely,  no  doubt,  for  himself,  to  be 
the  bachelor  of  thought  and  Nature.  He  had  no  talent 
for  wealth,  and  knew  how  to  be  poor  without  the  least 
hint  of  squalor  or  inelegance.  Perhaps  he  fell  into  his 
way  of  living  without  forecasting  it  much,  but  approved 
it  with  later  wisdom.  "  I  am  often  reminded,"  he  wrote 
in  his  journal,  "  that,  if  I  had  bestowed  on  me  the  wealth 
of  Croesus,  my  aims  must  be  still  the  same,  and  my 
means  essentially  the  same."  He  had  no  temptations 


xviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

to  fight  against,  —  no  appetites,  no  passions,  no  taste  for 
elegant  trifles.  A  fine  house,  dress,  the  manners  and  talk 
of  highly  cultivated  people  were  all  thrown  away  on  him. 
He  much  preferred  a  good  Indian,  and  considered  these 
refinements  as  impediments  to  conversation,  wishing  to 
meet  his  companion  on  the  simplest  terms.  He  declined 
invitations  to  dinner-parties,  because  there  each  was  in 
every  one's  way,  and  he  could  not  meet  the  individuals 
to  any  purpose.  "They  make  their  pride,"  he  said, 
"in  making  their  dinner  cost  much;  I  make  my  pride 
in  making  my  dinner  cost  little."  When  asked  at  table 
what  dish  he  preferred,  he  answered,  "The  nearest." 
He  did  not  like  the  taste  of  wine,  and  never  had  a  vice 
in  his  life.  He  said,  "I  have  a  faint  recollection  of 
pleasure  derived  from  smoking  dried  lily-stems,  before 
I  was  a  man.  I  had  commonly  a  supply  of  these.  I  have 
never  smoked  anything  more  noxious." 

He  chose  to  be  rich  by  making  his  wants  few,  and 
supplying  them  himself.  In  his  travels,  he  used  the  rail 
road  only  to  get  over  so  much  country  as  was  unimpor 
tant  to  the  present  purpose,  walking  hundreds  of  miles, 
avoiding  taverns,  buying  a  lodging  in  farmers'  and 
fishermen's  houses,  as  cheaper,  and  more  agreeable  to 
him,  and  because  there  he  could  better  find  the  men  and 
the  information  he  wanted. 

There  was  somewhat  military  in  his  nature  not  to  be 
subdued,  always  manly  and  able,  but  rarely  tender,  as  if 
he  did  not  feel  himself  except  in  opposition.  He  wanted 
a  fallacy  to  expose,  a  blunder  to  pillory,  I  may  say 
required  a  little  sense  of  victory,  a  roll  of  the  drum,  to 
call  his  powers  into  full  exercise.  It  cost  him  nothing  to 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xix 

say  No ;  indeed,  he  found  it  much  easier  than  to  say  Yes. 
It  seemed  as  if  his  first  instinct  on  hearing  a  proposition 
was  to  controvert  it,  so  impatient  was  he  of  the  limita 
tions  of  our  daily  thought.  This  habit,  of  course,  is  a 
little  chilling  to  the  social  affections;  and  though  the 
companion  would  in  the  end  acquit  him  of  any  malice  or 
untruth,  yet  it  mars  conversation.  Hence,  no  equal  com 
panion  stood  in  affectionate  relations  with  one  so  pure 
and  guileless.  "  I  love  Henry,"  said  one  of  his  friends, 
"  but  I  cannot  like  him ;  and  as  for  taking  his  arm,  I 
should  as  soon  think  of  taking  the  arm  of  an  elm  tree." 

Yet,  hermit  and  stoic  as  he  was,  he  was  really  fond  of 
sympathy,  and  threw  himself  heartily  and  childlike  into 
the  company  of  young  people  whom  he  loved,  and  whom 
he  delighted  to  entertain,  as  he  only  could,  with  the 
varied  and  endless  anecdotes  of  his  experiences  by  field 
and  river.  And  he  was  always  ready  to  lead  a  huckle 
berry  party  or  a  search  for  chestnuts  or  grapes.  Talking, 
one  day,  of  a  public  discourse,  Henry  remarked,  that 
whatever  succeeded  with  the  audience  was  bad.  I  said, 
"  Who  would  not  like  to  write  something  which  all  can 
read,  like  'Robinson  Crusoe'?  and  who  does  not  see 
with  regret  that  his  page  is  not  solid  with  a  right  mate 
rialistic  treatment,  which  delights  everybody  ?  "  Henry 
objected,  of  course,  and  vaunted  the  better  lectures 
which  reached  only  a  few  persons.  But,  at  supper,  a 
young  girl,  understanding  that  he  was  to  lecture  at  the 
Lyceum,  sharply  asked  him,  "  whether  his  lecture  would 
be  a  nice,  interesting  story,  such  as  she  wished  to  hear,  or 
whether  it  was  one  of  those  old  philosophical  things  that 
she  did  not  care  about."  Henry  turned  to  her,  and  be- 


xx  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

thought  himself,  and,  I  saw,  was  trying  to  believe  that 
he  had  matter  that  might  fit  her  and  her  brother,  who 
were  to  sit  up  and  go  to  the  lecture,  if  it  was  a  good  one 
for  them. 

He  was  a  speaker  and  actor  of  the  truth,  —  born 
such,  —  and  was  ever  running  into  dramatic  situations 
from  this  cause.  In  any  circumstance,  it  interested  all 
bystanders  to  know  what  part  Henry  would  take,  and 
what  he  would  say;  and  he  did  not  disappoint  expecta 
tion,  but  used  an  original  judgment  on  each  emergency. 
In  1845  he  built  himself  a  small  framed  house  on  the 
shores  of  Walden  Pond,  and  lived  there  two  years  alone, 
a  life  of  labor  and  study.  This  action  was  quite  native 
and  fit  for  him.  No  one  who  knew  him  would  tax  him 
with  affectation.  He  was  more  unlike  his  neighbors  in 
his  thought  than  in  his  action.  As  soon  as  he  had  ex 
hausted  the  advantages  of  that  solitude,  he  abandoned 
it.  In  1847,  not  approving  some  uses  to  which  the  public 
expenditure  was  applied,  he  refused  to  pay  his  town  tax, 
and  was  put  in  jail.  A  friend  paid  the  tax  for  him,  and 
he  was  released.  The  like  annoyance  was  threatened  the 
next  year.  But,  as  his  friends  paid  the  tax,  notwith 
standing  his  protest,  I  believe  he  ceased  to  resist.  No 
opposition  or  ridicule  had  any  weight  with  him.  He 
coldly  and  fully  stated  his  opinion  without  affecting  to 
believe  that  it  was  the  opinion  of  the  company.  It  was  of 
no  consequence  if  every  one  present  held  the  opposite 
opinion.  On  one  occasion  he  went  to  the  University 
Library  to  procure  some  books.  The  librarian  refused 
to  lend  them.  Mr.  Thoreau  repaired  to  the  President, 
who  stated  to  him  the  rules  and  usages,  which  permitted 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xxi 

the  loan  of  books  to  resident  graduates,  to  clergymen 
who  were  alumni,  and  to  some  others  resident  within  a 
circle  of  ten  miles'  radius  from  the  College.  Mr.  Tho- 
reau  explained  to  the  President  that  the  railroad  had 
destroyed  the  old  scale  of  distances,  —  that  the  library 
was  useless,  yes,  and  President  and  College  useless,  on 
the  terms  of  his  rules,  —  that  the  one  benefit  he  owed  to 
the  College  was  its  library,  — -  that,  at  this  moment,  not 
only  his  want  of  books  was  imperative,  but  he  wanted  a 
large  number  of  books,  and  assured  him  that  he,  Tho- 
reau,  and  not  the  librarian,  was  the  proper  custodian  of 
these.  In  short,  the  President  found  the  petitioner  so 
formidable,  and  the  rules  getting  to  look  so  ridiculous, 
that  he  ended  by  giving  him  a  privilege  which  in  his 
hands  proved  unlimited  thereafter. 

No  truer  American  existed  than  Thoreau.  His  pre 
ference  of  his  country  and  condition  was  genuine,  and 
his  aversation  from  English  and  European  manners  and 
tastes  almost  reached  contempt.  He  listened  impatiently 
to  news  or  bonmots  gleaned  from  London  circles;  and 
though  he  tried  to  be  civil,  these  anecdotes  fatigued  him. 
The  men  were  all  imitating  each  other,  and  on  a  small 
mould.  Why  can  they  not  live  as  far  apart  as  possible, 
and  each  be  a  man  by  himself  ?  What  he  sought  was  the 
most  energetic  nature;  and  he  wished  to  go  to  Oregon, 
not  to  London.  "In  every  part  of  Great  Britain,"  he 
wrote  in  his  diary,  "  are  discovered  traces  of  the  Romans, 
their  funereal  urns,  their  camps,  their  roads,  their  dwell 
ings.  But  New  England,  at  least,  is  not  based  on  any 
Roman  ruins.  We  have  not  to  lay  the  foundations  of  our 
houses  on  the  ashes  of  a  former  civilization." 


xxii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

But,  idealist  as  he  was,  standing  for  abolition  of 
slavery,  abolition  of  tariffs,  almost  for  abolition  of  gov 
ernment,  it  is  needless  to  say  he  found  himself  not  only 
unrepresented  in  actual  politics,  but  almost  equally 
opposed  to  every  class  of  reformers.  Yet  he  paid  the 
tribute  of  his  uniform  respect  to  the  Anti -Slavery  party. 
One  man,  whose  personal  acquaintance  he  had  formed, 
he  honored  with  exceptional  regard.  Before  the  first 
friendly  word  had  been  spoken  for  Captain  John  Brown, 
after  the  arrest,  he  sent  notices  to  most  houses  in  Con 
cord,  that  he  would  speak  in  a  public  hall  on  the  con 
dition  and  character  of  John  Brown,  on  Sunday  evening, 
and  invited  all  people  to  come.  The  Republican  Com 
mittee,  the  Abolitionist  Committee,  sent  him  word  that 
it  was  premature  and  not  advisable.  He  replied,  "I 
did  not  send  to  you  for  advice,  but  to  announce  that  I 
am  to  speak."  The  hall  was  filled  at  an  early  hour  by 
people  of  all  parties,  and  his  earnest  eulogy  of  the  hero 
was  heard  by  all  respectfully,  by  many  with  a  sympathy 
that  surprised  themselves. 

It  was  said  of  Plotinus  that  he  was  ashamed  of  his 
body,  and  't  is  very  likely  he  had  good  reason  for  it,  — 
that  his  body  was  a  bad  servant,  and  he  had  not  skill 
in  dealing  with  the  material  world,  as  happens  often  to 
men  of  abstract  intellect.  But  Mr.  Thoreau  was  equipped 
with  a  most  adapted  and  serviceable  body.  He  was  of 
short  stature,  firmly  built,  of  light  complexion,  with 
strong,  serious  blue  eyes,  and  a  grave  aspect,  —  his 
face  covered  in  the  late  years  with  a  becoming  beard. 
His  senses  were  acute,  his  frame  well-knit  and  hardy, 
his  hands  strong  and  skillful  in  the  use  of  tools.  And 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xxiii 

there  was  a  wonderful  fitness  of  body  and  mind.  He 
could  pace  sixteen  rods  more  accurately  than  another 
man  could  measure  them  with  rod  and  chain.  He  could 
find  his  path  in  the  woods  at  night,  he  said,  better  by 
his  feet  than  his  eyes.  He  could  estimate  the  measure 
of  a  tree  very  well  by  his  eyes;  he  could  estimate  the 
weight  of  a  calf  or  a  pig,  like  a  dealer.  From  a  box  con 
taining  a  bushel  or  more  of  loose  pencils,  he  could  take 
up  with  his  hands  fast  enough  just  a  dozen  pencils  at 
every  grasp.  He  was  a  good  swimmer,  runner,  skater, 
boatman,  and  would  probably  outwalk  most  country 
men  in  a  day's  journey.  And  the  relation  of  body  to 
mind  was  still  finer  than  we  have  indicated.  He  said 
he  wanted  every  stride  his  legs  made.  The  length  of 
his  walk  uniformly  made  the  length  of  his  writing.  If 
shut  up  in  the  house,  he  did  not  write  at  all. 

He  had  a  strong  common  sense,  like  that  which  Rose 
Flammock,  the  weaver's  daughter,  in  Scott's  romance, 
commends  in  her  father,  as  resembling  a  yardstick 
which,  whilst  it  measures  dowlas  and  diaper,  can  equally 
well  measure  tapestry  and  cloth  of  gold.  He  had  always 
a  new  resource.  When  I  was  planting  forest-trees,  and 
had  procured  half  a  peck  of  acorns,  he  said  that  only 
a  small  portion  of  them  would  be  sound,  and  pro 
ceeded  to  examine  them,  and  select  the  sound  ones. 
But  finding  this  took  time,  he  said,  "  I  think,  if  you  put 
them  all  into  water,  the  good  ones  will  sink;"  which 
experiment  we  tried  with  success.  He  could  plan  a  gar 
den,  or  a  house,  or  a  barn;  would  have  been  competent 
to  lead  a  "Pacific  Exploring  Expedition;/'  could  give 
judicious  counsel  in  the  gravest  private  or  public  affairs. 


xxiv  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

He  lived  for  the  day,  not  cumbered  and  mortified  by 
his  memory.  If  he  brought  you  yesterday  a  new  propo 
sition,  he  would  bring  you  to-day  another  not  less  revo 
lutionary.  A  very  industrious  man,  and  setting,  like 
all  highly  organized  men,  a  high  value  on  his  time,  he 
seemed  the  only  man  of  leisure  in  town,  always  ready 
for  any  excursion  that  promised  well,  or  for  conversa 
tion  prolonged  into  late  hours.  His  trenchant  sense 
was  never  stopped  by  his  rules  of  daily  prudence,  but 
was  always  up  to  the  new  occasion.  He  liked  and  used 
the  simplest  food,  yet,  when  some  one  urged  a  vege 
table  diet,  Thoreau  thought  all  diets  a  very  small  mat 
ter,  saying  that  "the  man  who  shoots  the  buffalo  lives 
better  than  the  man  who  boards  at  the  Graham  House." 
He  said :  "  You  can  sleep  near  the  railroad,  and  never 
be  disturbed:  Nature  knows  very  well  what  sounds 
are  worth  attending  to,  and  has  made  up  her  mind  not 
to  hear  the  railroad-whistle.  But  things  respect  the 
devout  mind,  and  a  mental  ecstasy  was  never  inter 
rupted."  He  noted  what  repeatedly  befell  him,  that, 
after  receiving  from  a  distance  a  rare  plant,  he  would 
presently  find  the  same  in  his  own  haunts.  And  those 
pieces  of  luck  which  happen  only  to  good  players  hap 
pened  to  him.  One  day,  walking  with  a  stranger,  who 
inquired  where  Indian  arrowheads  could  be  found,  he 
replied,  "Everywhere,"  and,  stooping  forward,  picked 
one  on  the  instant  from  the  ground.  At  Mount  Wash 
ington,  in  Tuckerman's  Ravine,  Thoreau  had  a  bad 
fall,  and  sprained  his  foot.  As  he  was  in  the  act  of 
getting  up  from  his  fall,  he  saw  for  the  first  time  the 
leaves  of  the  Arnica  mollis. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xxv 

His  robust  common  sense,  armed  with  stout  hands, 
keen  perceptions,  and  strong  will,  cannot  yet  account 
for  the  superiority  which  shone  in  his  simple  and  hid 
den  life.  I  must  add  the  cardinal  fact,  that  there  was 
an  excellent  wisdom  in  him,  proper  to  a  rare  class  of 
men,  which  showed  him  the  material  world  as  a  means 
and  symbol.  This  discovery,  which  sometimes  yields 
to  poets  a  certain  casual  and  interrupted  light,  serving 
for  the  ornament  of  their  writing,  was  in  him  an  un 
sleeping  insight;  and  whatever  faults  or  obstructions 
of  temperament  might  cloud  it,  he  was  not  disobedient 
to  the  heavenly  vision.  In  his  youth,  he  said,  one  day, 
"The  other  world  is  all  my  art:  my  pencils  will  draw 
no  other;  my  jack-knife  will  cut  nothing  else;  I  do  not 
use  it  as  a  means."  This  was  the  muse  and  genius  that 
ruled  his  opinions,  conversation,  studies,  work,  and 
course  of  life.  This  made  him  a  searching  judge  of  men. 
At  first  glance  he  measured  his  companion,  and,  though 
insensible  to  some  fine  traits  of  culture,  could  very  well 
report  his  weight  and  calibre.  And  this  made  the  im 
pression  of  genius  which  his  conversation  often  gave. 

He  understood  the  matter  in  hand  at  a  glance,  and 
saw  the  limitations  and  poverty  of  those  he  talked  with, 
so  that  nothing  seemed  concealed  from  such  terrible 
eyes.  I  have  repeatedly  known  young  men  of  sen 
sibility  converted  in  a  moment  to  the  belief  that  this 
was  the  man  they  were  in  search  of,  the  man  of  men, 
who  could  tell  them  all  they  should  do.  His  own 
dealing  with  them  was  never  affectionate,  but  superior, 
didactic,  —  scorning  their  petty  ways,  —  very  slowly 
conceding,  or  not  conceding  at  all,  the  promise  of  his 


xxvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

society  at  their  houses,  or  even  at  his  own.  "Would  he 
not  walk  with  them  ?  "  "  He  did  not  know.  There  was 
nothing  so  important  to  him  as  his  walk;  he  had  no 
walks  to  throw  away  on  company."  Visits  were  offered 
him  from  respectful  parties,  but  he  declined  them. 
Admiring  friends  offered  to  carry  him  at  their  own 
cost  to  the  Yellowstone  River,  —  to  the  West  Indies, 
—  to  South  America.  But  though  nothing  could  be 
more  grave  or  considered  than  his  refusals,  they  re 
mind  one  in  quite  new  relations  of  that  fop  Brummers 
reply  to  the  gentleman  who  offered  him  his  carriage 
in  a  shower,  "  But  where  will  you  ride,  then  ?  "  —  and 
what  accusing  silences,  and  what  searching  and  irre 
sistible  speeches,  battering  down  all  defenses,  his  com 
panions  can  remember ! 

Mr.  Thoreau  dedicated  his  genius  with  such  entire 
love  to  the  fields,  hills,  and  waters  of  his  native  town, 
that  he  made  them  known  and  interesting  to  all  read 
ing  Americans,  and  to  people  over  the  sea.  The  river 
on  whose  banks  he  was  born  and  died  he  knew  from 
its  springs  to  its  confluence  with  the  Merrimack.  He 
had  made  summer  and  winter  observations  on  it  for 
many  years,  and  at  every  hour  of  the  day  and  the  night. 
The  result  of  the  recent  survey  of  the  Water  Commis 
sioners  appointed  by  the  State  of  Massachusetts  he 
had  reached,  by  his  private  experiments,  several  years 
earlier.  Every  fact  which  occurs  in  the  bed,  on  the 
banks,  or  in  the  air  over  it;  the  fishes,  and  their  spawn 
ing  and  nests,  their  manners,  their  food;  the  shad-flies 
which  fill  the  air  on  a  certain  evening  once  a  year,  and 
which  are  snapped  at  by  the  fishes  so  ravenously  that 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xxvii 

many  of  these  die  of  repletion;  the  conical  heaps  of 
small  stones  on  the  river-shallows,  the  huge  nests  of 
small  fishes,  one  of  which  will  sometimes  overfill  a 
cart ;  the  birds  which  frequent  the  stream,  heron,  duck, 
sheldrake,  loon,  osprey ;  the  snake,  muskrat,  otter,  wood- 
chuck,  and  fox,  on  the  banks;  the  turtle,  frog,  hyla, 
and  cricket,  which  make  the  banks  vocal,  —  were  all 
known  to  him,  and,  as  it  were,  townsmen  and  fellow 
creatures;  so  that  he  felt  an  absurdity  or  violence  in 
any  narrative  of  one  of  these  by  itself  apart,  and  still 
more  of  its  dimensions  on  an  inch-rule,  or  in  the  exhi 
bition  of  its  skeleton,  or  the  specimen  of  a  squirrel  or  a 
bird  in  brandy.  He  liked  to  speak  of  the  manners  of  the 
river,  as  itself  a  lawful  creature,  yet  with  exactness,  and 
always  to  an  observed  fact.  As  he  knew  the  river,  so 
the  ponds  in  this  region. 

One  of  the  weapons  he  used,  more  important  than 
microscope  or  alcohol-receiver  to  other  investigators, 
was  a  whim  which  grew  on  him  by  indulgence,  yet 
appeared  in  gravest  statement,  namely,  of  extolling  his 
own  town  and  neighborhood  as  the  most  favored  cen 
tre  for  natural  observation.  He  remarked  that  the 
Flora  of  Massachusetts  embraced  almost  all  the  im 
portant  plants  of  America,  —  most  of  the  oaks,  most 
of  the  willows,  the  best  pines,  the  ash,  the  maple,  the 
beech,  the  nuts.  He  returned  Kane's  "Arctic  Voyage" 
to  a  friend  of  whom  he  had  borrowed  it,  with  the  re 
mark,  that  "most  of  the  phenomena  noted  might  be 
observed  in  Concord."  He  seemed  a  little  envious  of 
the  Pole,  for  the  coincident  sunrise  and  sunset,  or  five 
minutes'  day  after  six  months:  a  splendid  fact,  which 


xxviii  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

Annursnuc  had  never  afforded  him.  He  found  red  snow 
in  one  of  his  walks,  and  told  me  that  he  expected  to 
find  yet  the  Victoria  regia  in  Concord.  He  was  the 
attorney  of  the  indigenous  plants,  and  owned  to  a  pre 
ference  of  the  weeds  to  the  imported  plants,  as  of  the 
Indian  to  the  civilized  man,  —  and  noticed,  with  plea 
sure,  that  the  willow  bean-poles  of  his  neighbor  had 
grown  more  than  his  beans.  "See  these  weeds,"  he 
said,  "which  have  been  hoed  at  by  a  million  farmers 
all  spring  and  summer,  and  yet  have  prevailed,  and  just 
now  come  out  triumphant  over  all  lanes,  pastures, 
fields,  and  gardens,  such  is  their  vigor.  We  have  in 
sulted  them  with  low  names,  too,  —  as  Pigweed,  Worm 
wood,  Chickweed,  Shad-Blossom."  He  says,  "They 
have  brave  names,  too,  —  Ambrosia,  Stellaria,  Ame- 
lanchier,  Amaranth,  etc." 

I  think  his  fancy  for  referring  everything  to  the  me 
ridian  of  Concord  did  not  grow  out  of  any  ignorance  or 
depreciation  of  other  longitudes  or  latitudes,  but  was 
rather  a  playful  expression  of  his  conviction  of  the  in- 
differency  of  all  places,  and  that  the  best  place  for  each 
is  where  he  stands.  He  expressed  it  once  in  this  wise: 
"I  think  nothing  is  to  be  hoped  from  you,  if  this  bit  of 
mould  under  your  feet  is  not  sweeter  to  you  to  eat  than 
any  other  in  this  world,  or  in  any  world." 

The  other  weapon  with  which  he  conquered  all  ob 
stacles  in  science  was  patience.  He  knew  how  to  sit 
immovable,  a  part  of  the  rock  he  rested  on,  until  the 
bird,  the  reptile,  the  fish,  which  had  retired  from  him, 
should  come  back,  and  resume  its  habits,  nay,  moved 
by  curiosity,  should  come  to  him  and  watch  him. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xxix 

It  was  a  pleasure  and  a  privilege  to  walk  with  him. 
He  knew  the  country  like  a  fox  or  a  bird,  and  passed 
through  it  as  freely  by  paths  of  his  own.  He  knew  every 
track  in  the  snow  or  on  the  ground,  and  what  creature 
had  taken  this  path  before  him.  One  must  submit  ab 
jectly  to  such  a  guide,  and  the  reward  was  great.  Under 
his  arm  he  carried  an  old  music-book  to  press  plants ; 
in  his  pocket,  his  diary  and  pencil,  a  spy-glass  for  birds, 
microscope,  jack-knife,  and  twine.  He  wore  straw  hat, 
stout  shoes,  strong  gray  trousers  to  brave  shrub  oaks 
and  smilax,  and  to  climb  a  tree  for  a  hawk's  or  a  squir 
rel's  nest.  He  waded  into  the  pool  for  the  water-plants, 
and  his  strong  legs  were  no  insignificant  part  of  his 
armor.  On  the  day  I  speak  of  he  looked  for  the  meny- 
anthes,  detected  it  across  the  wide  pool,  and,  on  exam 
ination  of  the  florets,  decided  that  it  had  been  in  flower 
five  days.  He  drew  out  of  his  breast-pocket  his  diary, 
and  read  the  names  of  all  the  plants  that  should  bloom 
on  this  day,  whereof  he  kept  account  as  a  banker  when 
his  notes  fall  due.  The  cypripedium  not  due  till  to 
morrow.  He  thought,  that,  if  waked  up  from  a  trance, 
in  this  swamp,  he  could  tell  by  the  plants  what  time  of 
the  year  it  was  within  two  days.  The  redstart  was  flying 
about,  and  presently  the  fine  grosbeaks,  whose  bril 
liant  scarlet  makes  the  rash  gazer  wipe  his  eye,  and 
whose  fine  clear  note  Thoreau  compared  to  that  of  a 
tanager  which  has  got  rid  of  its  hoarseness.  Presently 
he  heard  a  note  which  he  called  that  of  the  night-warbler, 
a  bird  he  had  never  identified,  had  been  in  search  of 
twelve  years,  which  always,  when  he  saw  it,  was  in  the 
act  of  diving  down  into  a  tree  or  bush,  and  which  it 


xxx  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

was  vain  to  seek;  the  only  bird  that  sings  indifferently 
by  night  and  by  day.  I  told  him  he  must  beware  of 
finding  and  booking  it,  lest  life  should  have  nothing 
more  to  show  him.  He  said,  "  What  you  seek  in  vain 
for,  half  your  life,  one  day  you  come  full  upon,  all  the 
family  at  dinner.  You  seek  it  like  a  dream,  and  as 
soon  as  you  find  it  you  become  its  prey." 

His  interest  in  the  flower  or  the  bird  lay  very  deep  in 
his  mind,  was  connected  with  Nature,  —  and  the  mean 
ing  of  Nature  was  never  attempted  to  be  defined  by 
him.  He  would  not  offer  a  memoir  of  his  observations 
to  the  Natural  History  Society.  "Why  should  I?  To 
detach  the  description  from  its  connections  in  my  mind 
would  make  it  no  longer  true  or  valuable  to  me;  and 
they  do  not  wish  what  belongs  to  it."  His  power  of  ob 
servation  seemed  to  indicate  additional  senses.  He  saw 
as  with  microscope,  heard  as  with  ear-trumpet,  and  his 
memory  was  a  photographic  register  of  all  he  saw  and 
heard.  And  yet  none  knew  better  than  he  that  it  is  not 
the  fact  that  imports,  but  the  impression  or  effect  of 
the  fact  on  your  mind.  Every  fact  lay  in  glory  in  his 
mind,  a  type  of  the  order  and  beauty  of  the  whole. 

His  determination  on  Natural  History  was  organic. 
He  confessed  that  he  sometimes  felt  like  a  hound  or  a 
panther,  and,  if  born  among  Indians,  would  have  been 
a  fell  hunter.  But,  restrained  by  his  Massachusetts 
culture,  he  played  out  the  game  in  this  mild  form  of 
botany  and  ichthyology.  His  intimacy  with  animals 
suggested  what  Thomas  Fuller  records  of  Butler  the 
apiologist,  that  "either  he  had  told  the  bees  things  or 
the  bees  had  told  him."  Snakes  coiled  round  his  leg, 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xxxi 

the  fishes  swam  into  his  hand,  and  he  took  them  out 
of  the  water;  he  pulled  the  woodchuck  out  of  its  hole 
by  the  tail,  and  took  the  foxes  under  his  protection  from 
the  hunters.  Our  naturalist  had  perfect  magnanimity; 
he  had  no  secrets:  he  would  carry  you  to  the  heron's 
haunt,  or  even  to  his  most  prized  botanical  swamp,  — 
possibly  knowing  that  you  could  never  find  it  again, 
yet  willing  to  take  his  risks. 

No  college  ever  offered  him  a  diploma,  or  a  profes 
sor's  chair;  no  academy  made  him  its  corresponding 
secretary,  its  discoverer,  or  even  its  member.  Perhaps 
these  learned  bodies  feared  the  satire  of  his  presence. 
Yet  so  much  knowledge  of  Nature's  secret  and  genius 
few  others  possessed,  none  in  a  more  large  and  reli 
gious  synthesis.  For  not  a  particle  of  respect  had  he  to 
the  opinions  of  any  man  or  body  of  men,  but  homage 
solely  to  the  truth  itself;  and  as  he  discovered  every 
where  among  doctors  some  leaning  of  courtesy,  it  dis 
credited  them.  He  grew  to  be  revered  and  admired  by 
his  townsmen,  who  had  at  first  known  him  only  as  an 
oddity.  The  farmers  who  employed  him  as  a  surveyor 
soon  discovered  his  rare  accuracy  and  skill,  his  know 
ledge  of  their  lands,  of  trees,  of  birds,  of  Indian  remains, 
and  the  like,  which  enabled  him  to  tell  every  farmer 
more  than  he  knew  before  of  his  own  farm;  so  that  he 
began  to  feel  as  if  Mr.  Thoreau  had  better  rights  in  his 
land  than  he.  They  felt,  too,  the  superiority  of  charac 
ter  which  addressed  all  men  with  a  native  authority. 

Indian  relics  abound  in  Concord,  —  arrowheads, 
stone  chisels,  pestles,  and  fragments  of  pottery;  and  on 
the  river-bank,  large  heaps  of  clamshells  and  ashes 


xxxii  BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

mark  spots  which  the  savages  frequented.  These,  and 
every  circumstance  touching  the  Indian,  were  impor 
tant  in  his  eyes.  His  visits  to  Maine  were  chiefly  for 
love  of  the  Indian.  He  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing 
the  manufacture  of  the  bark  canoe,  as  well  as  of  trying 
his  hand  in  its  management  on  the  rapids.  He  was 
inquisitive  about  the  making  of  the  stone  arrowhead, 
and  in  his  last  days  charged  a  youth  setting  out  for  the 
Rocky  Mountains  to  find  an  Indian  who  could  tell  him 
that:  "It  was  well  worth  a  visit  to  California  to  learn 
it."  Occasionally,  a  small  party  of  Penobscot  Indians 
would  visit  Concord,  and  pitch  their  tents  for  a  few 
weeks  in  summer  on  the  river-bank.  He  failed  not  to 
make  acquaintance  with  the  best  of  them;  though  he 
well  knew  that  asking  questions  of  Indians  is  like  cate 
chising  beavers  and  rabbits.  In  his  last  visit  to  Maine 
he  had  great  satisfaction  from  Joseph  Polis,  an  intel 
ligent  Indian  of  Oldtown,  who  was  his  guide  for  some 
weeks. 

He  was  equally  interested  in  every  natural  fact.  The 
depth  of  his  perception  found  likeness  of  law  through 
out  Nature,  and  I  know  not  any  genius  who  so  swiftly 
inferred  universal  law  from  the  single  fact.  He  was  no 
pedant  of  a  department.  His  eye  was  open  to  beauty, 
and  bis  ear  to  music.  He  found  these,  not  in  rare  con 
ditions,  but  wheresoever  he  went.  He  thought  the  best 
of  music  was  in  single  strains;  and  he  found  poetic 
suggestion  in  the  humming  of  the  telegraph-wire. 

His  poetry  might  be  bad  or  good;  he  no  doubt  wanted 
a  lyric  facility  and  technical  skill;  but  he  had  the  source 
of  poetry  in  his  spiritual  perception.  He  was  a  good 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH          xxxiii 

reader  and  critic,  and  his  judgment  on  poetry  was  to 
the  ground  of  it.  He  could  not  be  deceived  as  to  the 
presence  or  absence  of  the  poetic  element  in  any  com 
position,  and  his  thirst  for  this  made  him  negligent  and 
perhaps  scornful  of  superficial  graces.  He  would  pass 
by  many  delicate  rhythms,  but  he  would  have  detected 
every  live  stanza  or  line  in  a  volume,  and  knew  very 
well  where  to  find  an  equal  poetic  charm  in  prose. 
He  was  so  enamored  of  the  spiritual  beauty  that  he  held 
all  actual  written  poems  in  very  light  esteem  in  the 
comparison.  He  admired  ^Eschylus  and  Pindar;  but, 
when  some  one  was  commending  them,  he  said  that 
"^Eschylus  and  the  Greeks,  in  describing  Apollo  and 
Orpheus,  had  given  no  song,  or  no  good  one.  They 
ought  not  to  have  moved  trees,  but  to  have  chanted  to 
the  gods  such  a  hymn  as  would  have  sung  all  their  old 
ideas  out  of  their  heads,  and  new  ones  in."  His  own 
verses  are  often  rude  and  defective.  The  gold  does  not 
yet  run  pure,  is  drossy  and  crude.  The  thyme  and  mar 
joram  are  not  yet  honey.  But  if  he  want  lyric  fineness 
and  technical  merits,  if  he  have  not  the  poetic  tempera 
ment,  he  never  lacks  the  causal  thought,  showing  that 
his  genius  was  better  than  his  talent.  He  knew  the  worth 
of  the  Imagination  for  the  uplifting  and  consolation 
of  human  life,  and  liked  to  throw  every  thought  into  a 
symbol.  The  fact  you  tell  is  of  no  value,  but  only  the 
impression.  For  this  reason  his  presence  was  poetic, 
always  piqued  the  curiosity  to  know  more  deeply  the 
secrets  of  his  mind.  He  had  many  reserves,  an  unwill 
ingness  to  exhibit  to  profane  eyes  what  was  still  sa 
cred  in  his  own,  and  knew  well  how  to  throw  a  poetic 


xxxiv  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

veil  over  his  experience.  All  readers  of  "  Walden  "  will 
remember  his  mythical  record  of  his  disappointments :  — 

"  I  long  ago  lost  a  hound,  a  bay  horse,  and  a  turtle 
dove,  and  am  still  on  their  trail.  Many  are  the  travelers 
I  have  spoken  concerning  them,  describing  their  tracks 
and  what  calls  they  answered  to.  I  have  met  one  or  two 
who  had  heard  the  hound,  and  the  tramp  of  the  horse, 
and  even  seen  the  dove  disappear  behind  a  cloud;  and 
they  seemed  as  anxious  to  recover  them  as  if  they  had 
lost  them  themselves."  1 

His  riddles  were  worth  the  reading,  and  I  confide, 
that,  if  at  any  time  I  do  not  understand  the  expression, 
it  is  yet  just.  Such  was  the  wealth  of  his  truth  that  it 
was  not  worthiiis  while  to  use  words  in  vain.  His  poem 
entitled  "  Sympathy  "  reveals  the  tenderness  under  that 
triple  steel  of  stoicism,  and  the  intellectual  subtilty  it 
could  animate.  His  classic  poem  on  "Smoke"  sug 
gests  Simonides,  but  is  better  than  any  poem  of  Si- 
monides.  His  biography  is  in  his  verses.  His  habitual 
thought  makes  all  his  poetry  a  hymn  to  the  Cause  of 
causes,  the  Spirit  which  vivifies  and  controls  his  own. 

**I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears, 
And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before ; 
I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 
And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but  learning's  lore." 

And  still  more  in  these  religious  lines :  — 

"  Now  chiefly  in  my  natal  hour, 
And  only  now  my  prime  of  life  ; 
I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold, 
Which  not  my  worth  or  want  hath  bought, 
Which  wooed  me  young,  and  wooes  me  old, 
And  to  this  evening  hath  me  brought." 
1  Walden,  p.  18. 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xxxv 

Whilst  he  used  in  his  writings  a  certain  petulance  of 
remark  in  reference  to  churches  or  churchmen,  he  was 
a  person  of  a  rare,  tender,  and  absolute  religion,  a  per 
son  incapable  of  any  profanation,  by  act  or  by  thought. 
Of  course,  the  same  isolation  which  belonged  to  his 
original  thinking  and  living  detached  him  from  the 
social  religious  forms.  This  is  neither  to  be  censured 
nor  regretted.  Aristotle  long  ago  explained  it,  when  he 
said,  "  One  who  surpasses  his  fellow-citizens  in  virtue 
is  no  longer  a  part  of  the  city.  Their  law  is  not  for  him, 
since  he  is  a  law  to  himself." 

Thoreau  was  sincerity  itself,  and  might  fortify  the 
convictions  of  prophets  in  the  ethical  laws  by  his  holy 
living.  It  was  an  affirmative  experience  which  refused 
to  be  set  aside.  A  truth-speaker  he,  capable  of  the  most 
deep  and  strict  conversation ;  a  physician  to  the  wounds 
of  any  soul;  a  friend,  knowing  not  only  the  secret  of 
friendship,  but  almost  worshiped  by  those  few  persons 
who  resorted  to  him  as  their  confessor  and  prophet, 
and  knew  the  deep  value  of  his  mind  and  great  heart. 
He  thought  that  without  religion  or  devotion  of  some 
kind  nothing  great  was  ever  accomplished;  and  he 
thought  that  the  bigoted  sectarian  had  better  bear  this 
in  mind. 

His  virtues,  of  course,  sometimes  ran  into  extremes. 
It  was  easy  to  trace  to  the  inexorable  demand  on  all  for 
exact  truth  that  austerity  which  made  this  willing  her 
mit  more  solitary  even  than  he  wished.  Himself  of  a 
perfect  probity,  he  required  not  less  of  others.  He  had 
a  disgust  at  crime,  and  no  worldly  success  could  cover 
it.  He  detected  paltering  as  readily  in  dignified  and 


xxxvi  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

prosperous  persons  as  in  beggars,  and  with  equal  scorn. 
Such  dangerous  frankness  was  in  his  dealing  that  his 
admirers  called  him  "that  terrible  Thoreau,"  as  if  he 
spoke  when  silent,  and  was  still  present  when  he  had 
departed.  I  think  the  severity  of  his  ideal  interfered  to 
deprive  him  of  a  healthy  sufficiency  of  human  society. 

The  habit  of  a  realist  to  find  things  the  reverse  of 
their  appearance  inclined  him  to  put  every  statement 
in  a  paradox.  A  certain  habit  of  antagonism  defaced 
his  earlier  writings,  —  a  trick  of  rhetoric  not  quite  out 
grown  in  his  later,  of  substituting  for  the  obvious  word 
and  thought  its  diametrical  opposite.  He  praised  wild 
mountains  and  winter  forests  for  their  domestic  air, 
in  snow  and  ice  he  would  find  sultriness,  and  com 
mended  the  wilderness  for  resembling  Rome  and  Paris. 
"  It  was  so  dry,  that  you  might  call  it  wet." 

The  tendency  to  magnify  the  moment,  to  read  all 
the  laws  of  Nature  in  the  one  object  or  one  combina 
tion  under  your  eye,  is  of  course  comic  to  those  who  do 
not  share  the  philosopher's  perception  of  identity.  To 
him  there  was  no  such  thing  as  size.  The  pond  was  a 
small  ocean;  the  Atlantic,  a  large  Walden  Pond.  He 
referred  every  minute  fact  to  cosmical  laws.  Though  he 
meant  to  be  just,  he  seemed  haunted  by  a  certain  chronic 
assumption  that  the  science  of  the  day  pretended  com 
pleteness,  and  he  had  just  found  out  that  the  savans 
had  neglected  to  discriminate  a  particular  botanical 
variety,  had  failed  to  describe  the  seeds  or  count  the 
sepals.  "That  is  to  say,"  we  replied,  "the  blockheads 
were  not  born  in  Concord;  but  who  said  they  were? 
It  was  their  unspeakable  misfortune  to  be  born  in  Lon- 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH          xxxvii 

don,  or  Paris,  or  Rome;  but,  poor  fellows,  they  did 
what  they  could,  considering  that  they  never  saw  Bate- 
man's  Pond,  or  Nine-Acre  Corner,  or  Becky  Stow's 
Swamp.  Besides,  what  were  you  sent  into  the  world 
for,  but  to  add  this  observation  ?  " 

Had  his  genius  been  only  contemplative,  he  had  been 
fitted  to  his  life,  but  with  his  energy  and  practical  abil 
ity  he  seemed  born  for  great  enterprise  and  for  com 
mand  ;  and  I  so  much  regret  the  loss  of  his  rare  powers 
of  action,  that  I  cannot  help  counting  it  a  fault  in  him 
that  he  had  no  ambition.  Wanting  this,  instead  of  en 
gineering  for  all  America,  he  was  the  captain  of  a  huckle 
berry  party.  Pounding  beans  is  good  to  the  end  of 
pounding  empires  one  of  these  days;  but  if,  at  the  end 
of  years,  it  is  still  only  beans! 

But  these  foibles,  real  or  apparent,  were  fast  van 
ishing  in  the  incessant  growth  of  a  spirit  so  robust  and 
wise,  and  which  effaced  its  defeats  with  new  triumphs. 
His  study  of  Nature  was  a  perpetual  ornament  to  him, 
and  inspired  his  friends  with  curiosity  to  see  the  world 
through  his  eyes,  and  to  hear  his  adventures.  They 
possessed  every  kind  of  interest. 

He  had  many  elegances  of  his  own,  whilst  he  scoffed 
at  conventional  elegance.  Thus,  he  could  not  bear  to 
hear  the  sound  of  his  own  steps,  the  grit  of  gravel;  and 
therefore  never  willingly  walked  in  the  road,  but  in 
the  grass,  on  mountains  and  in  woods.  His  senses  were 
acute,  and  he  remarked  that  by  night  every  dwelling- 
house  gives  out  bad  air,  like  a  slaughter-house.  He 
liked  the  pure  fragrance  of  melilot.  He  honored  certain 
plants  with  special  regard,  and,  over  all,  the  pond-lily, 


xxxviii         BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

—  then,  the  gentian,  and  the  Mikania  scandens,  and 
"  life-everlasting,"  and  a  bass  tree  which  he  visited 
every  year  when  it  bloomed,  in  the  middle  of  July.  He 
thought  the  scent  a  more  oracular  inquisition  than  the 
sight,  —  more  oracular  and  trustworthy.  The  scent, 
of  course,  reveals  what  is  concealed  from  the  other 
senses.  By  it  he  detected  earthiness.  He  delighted  in 
echoes,  and  said  they  were  almost  the  only  kind  of 
kindred  voices  that  he  heard.  He  loved  Nature  so  well, 
was  so  happy  in  her  solitude,  that  he  became  very  jeal 
ous  of  cities,  and  the  sad  work  which  their  refinements 
and  artifices  made  with  man  and  his  dwelling.  The 
axe  was  always  destroying  his  forest. 

"Thank  God,"  he  said,  "they  cannot  cut  down  the 
clouds!"  "All  kinds  of  figures  are  drawn  on  the  blue 
ground  with  this  fibrous  white  paint." 

I  subjoin  a  few  sentences  taken  from  his  unpub 
lished  manuscripts,  not  only  as  records  of  his  thought 
and  feeling,  but  for  their  power  of  description  and  lit 
erary  excellence. 

"Some  circumstantial  evidence  is  very  strong,  as 
when  you  find  a  trout  in  the  milk." 

"  The  chub  is  a  soft  fish,  and  tastes  like  boiled  brown 
paper  salted." 

"The  youth  gets  together  his  materials  to  build  a 
bridge  to  the  moon,  or,  perchance,  a  palace  or  temple 
on  the  earth,  and  at  length  the  middle-aged  man  con 
cludes  to  build  a  wood-shed  with  them." 

"The  locust  z-ing." 

"  DeviPs-needles  zigzagging  along  the  Nut  Meadow 
Brook." 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH  xxxix 

"  Sugar  is  not  so  sweet  to  the  palate  as  sound  to  the 
healthy  ear." 

"  I  put  on  some  hemlock  boughs,  and  the  rich  salt 
crackling  of  their  leaves  was  like  mustard  to  the  ear, 
the  crackling  of  unaccountable  regiments.  Dead  trees 
love  the  fire." 

"The  bluebird  carries  the  sky  on  his  back." 

"The  tanager  flies  through  the  green  foliage  as  if  it 
would  ignite  the  leaves." 

"If  I  wish  for  a  horse-hair  for  my  compass  sight,  I 
must  go  to  the  stable;  but  the  hair-bird,  with  her  sharp 
eyes,  goes  to  the  road." 

"  Immortal  water,  alive  even  to  the  superficies." 

"  Fire  is  the  most  tolerable  third  party." 

"Nature  made  ferns  for  pure  leaves,  to  show  what 
she  could  do  in  that  line." 

"  No  tree  has  so  fair  a  bole  and  so  handsome  an  in 
step  as  the  beech." 

"  How  did  these  beautiful  rainbow  tints  get  into  the 
shell  of  the  fresh-water  clam,  buried  in  the  mud  at  the 
bottom  of  our  dark  river  ?  " 

"  Hard  are  the  times  when  the  infant's  shoes  are  sec 
ond-foot." 

"We  are  strictly  confined  to  our  men  to  whom  we 
give  liberty." 

"Nothing  is  so  much  to  be  feared  as  fear.  Atheism 
may  comparatively  be  popular  with  God  himself." 

"Of  what  significance  the  things  you  can  forget? 
A  little  thought  is  sexton  to  all  the  world." 

"  How  can  we  expect  a  harvest  of  thought  who  have 
not  had  a  seed-time  of  character  ?  " 


xl  BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 

"  Only  he  can  be  trusted  with  gifts  who  can  present 
a  face  of  bronze  to  expectations." 

"  I  ask  to  be  melted.  You  can  only  ask  of  the  metals 
that  they  be  tender  to  the  fire  that  melts  them.  To 
naught  else  can  they  be  tender." 

There  is  a  flower  known  to  botanists,  one  of  the  same 
genus  with  our  summer  plant  called  "  life-everlasting," 
a  Gnaphalium  like  that,  which  grows  on  the  most  in 
accessible  cliffs  of  the  Tyrolese  mountains,  where  the 
chamois  dare  hardly  venture,  and  which  the  hunter, 
tempted  by  its  beauty,  and  by  his  love  (for  it  is  im 
mensely  valued  by  the  Swiss  maidens),  climbs  the  cliffs 
to  gather,  and  is  sometimes  found  dead  at  the  foot,  with 
the  flower  in  his  hand.  It  is  called  by  botanists  the 
GnapJmlium  Leontopodium,  but  by  the  Swiss  Edelweiss, 
which  signifies  Noble  Purity.  Thoreau  seemed  to  me 
living  in  the  hope  to  gather  this  plant,  which  belonged 
to  him  of  right.  The  scale  on  which  his  studies  pro 
ceeded  was  so  large  as  to  require  longevity,  and  we 
were  the  less  prepared  for  his  sudden  disappearance. 
The  country  knows  not  yet,  or  in  the  least  part,  how 
great  a  son  it  has  lost.  It  seems  an  injury  that  he  should 
leave  in  the  midst  his  broken  task,  which  none  else 
can  finish,  —  a  kind  of  indignity  to  so  noble  a  soul,  that 
he  should  depart  out  of  Nature  before  yet  he  has  been 
really  shown  to  his  peers  for  what  he  is.  But  he,  at 
least,  is  content.  His  soul  was  made  for  the  noblest 
society;  he  had  in  a  short  life  exhausted  the  capabilities 
of  this  world;  wherever  there  is  knowledge,  wherever 
there  is  virtue,  wherever  there  is  beauty,  he  will  find 
a  home. 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

IT  was  in  August  and  September,  1839,  as  the  chronicle 
notes,  that  the  voyage  recorded  in  these  pages  was  made. 
Thoreau  was  just  past  his  twenty-second  birthday;  he 
had  been  two  years  out  of  college,  and  though  he  had 
thus  far  printed  nothing,  he  had  already,  four  years 
before,  begun  that  practice  of  noting  his  experience,  ob 
servation,  and  reflection  in  a  diary  which  he  continued 
through  life,  so  that  not  only  did  his  journal  furnish 
him  with  the  first  draft  of  what  he  published  in  his 
lifetime,  but  it  formed  a  magazine  from  which,  after 
his  death,  friendly  editors  drew  successive  volumes. 

The  "Week"  is  much  more  than  a  mere  reproduction 
of  his  journal  during  the  period  under  consideration. 
It  was  not  published  as  a  book  until  1849,  ten  years 
after  the  excursion  which  it  commemorated ;  but  in  its 
final  form  were  inclosed  many  verses  and  some  prose 
passages  which  had  already  appeared  in  the  short-lived 
historic  "Dial."  It  will  be  remembered  that  Thoreau 
was  not  only  a  contributor  to  that  periodical  from 
the  beginning,  but  for  a  while  had  editorial  charge  of 
it;  the  editing,  indeed,  seemed  to  be  handed  about 
from  one  to  another  of  the  circle  most  concerned  in  its 
issue.  Thus  in  the  first  number,  July,  1840,  appeared 
the  excursus  on  Aulus  Persius  Flaccus,  printed  in  the 
"Week,"  pp.  327-333.  So, also,  his  poems  on  Friend 
ship  saw  the  light  first  in  the  second  number  of  "  The 


xlii  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

Dial,"  and  there  also  appeared  the  poems  "The  In 
ward  Morning,"  "The  Poet's  Delay,"  "Rumors  from 
an  ^Eolian  Harp,"  and  others,  as  well  as  the  study  of 
Anacreon,  with  examples  in  translation.  It  is  easy  for 
the  reader  to  see  that  the  "Week"  is  Thoreau's  com 
monplace  book  as  well  as  journal. 

He  was  living  in  his  hut  on  Walden  Pond  when  he 
edited  his  manuscripts  for  publication  in  book  form, 
and  Alcott,  visiting  him  one  evening  there,  heard  him 
read  some  passages  from  the  work.  It  is  interesting  to 
observe  how  immediately  this  man  of  fine  instincts 
perceived  the  worth  of  what  had  as  yet  struck  his  ear 
only,  listening  as  a  friend.  "The  book,"  he  writes  in 
his  diary,  "is  purely  American,  fragrant  with  the  life 
of  New  England  woods  and  streams,  and  could  have 
been  written  nowhere  else.  Especially  am  I  touched  by 
his  sufficiency  and  soundness,  his  aboriginal  vigor,  — 
as  if  a  man  had  once  more  come  into  Nature  who  knew 
what  Nature  meant  him  to  do  with  her;  Virgil  and 
White  of  Selborne  and  Izaak  Walton  and  Yankee 
settler  all  in  one.  I  came  home  at  midnight  through 
the  snowy  woodpaths,  and  slept  with  the  pleasing  dream 
that  presently  the  press  would  give  me  two  books  to 
be  proud  of,  —  Emerson's  '  Poems '  and  Thoreau's 
'Week.'"1 

This  was  written  in  March,  1847,  and  Thoreau  was 
probably  just  about  to  try  the  publishers,  if  his  manu 
script  were  not  even  now  resting  in  his  hut  from  one  of 
its  journeys.  For  in  a  letter  to  Emerson,  at  that  time 

i  A.  Branson  Alcott  ;  his  Life  and  Philosophy.  By  F.  B.  Sanborn 
and  William  T.  Harris,  p.  446. 


INTRODUCTORY   NOTE  xliii 

in  England,  written  November  14,  1847,  Thoreau  says, 
"I  suppose  you  will  like  to  hear  of  my  book,  though 
I  have  nothing  worth  writing  about  it.  Indeed,  for  the 
last  month  or  two  I  have  forgotten  it,  but  shall  cer 
tainly  remember  it  again.  Wiley  &  Putnam,  Munroe, 
the  Harpers,  and  Crosby  &  Nichols  have  all  declined 
printing  it  with  the  least  risk  to  themselves;  but  Wiley 
&  Putnam  will  print  it  in  their  series,  and  any  of  them 
anywhere,  at  my  risk.  If  I  liked  the  book  well  enough, 
I  should  not  delay';  but  for  the  present  I  am  indifferent. 
I  believe  this  is,  after  all,  the  course  you  advised,  —  to 
let  it  lie."  *  Apparently  he  used  the  opportunity  of 
having  it  by  him  to  touch  it  up  now  and  then,  for  in 
a  letter  to  Mr.  J.  Elliot  Cabot,  written  in  March,  1848, 
he  says :  "  My  book,  fortunately,  did  not  find  a  publisher 
ready  to  undertake  it,  and  you  can  imagine  the  effect 
of  delay  on  an  author's  estimate  of  his  own  work.  How 
ever,  I  like  it  well  enough  to  mend  it,  and  shall  look 
at  it  again  directly  when  I  have  dispatched  some  other 
things."  2  The  essay  on  Friendship  which  precedes 
the  poem  "  Friends,  Romans,  Countrymen,  and  Lovers," 
already  referred  to,  appears  to  have  been  written  at 
this  time,  for  Mr.  Alcott  in  his  diary,  under  date  of 
January  13,  1848,  notes:  "Henry  Thoreau  came  in 
after  my  hours  with  the  children,  and  we  had  a  good 
deal  of  talk  on  the  modes  of  popular  influence.  He  read 
me  a  manuscript  essay  of  his  on  Friendship,  which  he 
had  just  written,  and  which  I  thought  superior  to  any 
thing  I  had  heard."  3 

1  Familiar  Letters.  2  Ibid. 

3  Henry  D.  Thoreau.  By  F.  B.  Sanborn  [American  Men  of  Letters], 
p.  304. 


xliv  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

Apparently  Thoreau  was  convinced  of  the  impos 
sibility  of  persuading  any  publisher  to  take  the  book  at 
his  own  risk,  and  was  sufficiently  confident  of  the  worth 
of  the  volume  to  bear  the  expense  of  publication  him 
self,  although  to  do  this  he  was  obliged  to  borrow  money, 
and,  since  the  book  did  not  meet  its  expenses,  after 
ward  to  take  up  the  occupation  of  surveying  in  order 
to  cancel  his  obligation.  The  book  was  published  by 
James  Munroe  &  Co.,  Boston  and  Cambridge,  ap 
parently  in  the  summer  of  1849.  Mr.  George  Ripley 
wrote  a  kindly  notice  of  it  in  "The  Tribune,"  and 
James  Russell  Lowell  reviewed  it  in  a  dozen  pages  in 
the  "Massachusetts  Quarterly  Review"  for  December 
of  the  same  year.  With  his  own  cunning  in  literary  art 
he  quickly  divined  the  interior  structure  of  the  "Week." 
"The  great  charm,"  he  says,  "of  Mr.  Thoreau's  book 
seems  to  be  that  its  being  a  book  at  all  is  a  happy  for 
tuity.  The  door  of  the  portfolio  cage  has  been  left  open, 
and  the  thoughts  have  flown  out  of  themselves.  The 
paper  and  types  are  only  accidents.  The  page  is  con 
fidential  like  a  diary.  .  .  .  He  begins  honestly  enough 
as  the  Boswell  of  Musketaquid  and  Merrimack.  .  .  . 
As  long  as  he  continues  an  honest  Boswell,  his  book 
is  delightful,  but  sometimes  he  serves  his  two  rivers  as 
Hazlitt  did  Northeote,  and  makes  them  run  Thoreau 
or  Emerson  or  indeed  anything  but  their  own  trans 
parent  element.  .  .  .  We  have  digressions  on  Boodh, 
on  Anacreon  (with  translations  hardly  so  good  as  Cow- 
ley),  on  Persius,  on  Friendship,  and  we  know  not  what. 
We  come  upon  them  like  snags,  jolting  us  headfore 
most  out  of  our  places  as  we  are  rowing  placidly  up 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  xlv 

stream,  or  drifting  down.  Mr.  Thoreau  becomes  so 
absorbed  in  these  discussions  that  he  seems  as  it  were 
to  catch  a  crab  and  disappears  uncomfortably  from 
his  seat  at  the  bow  oar.  We  could  forgive  them  all,  es 
pecially  that  on  Books  and  that  on  Friendship  (which 
is  worthy  of  one  who  has  so  long  communed  with  Na 
ture  and  with  Emerson),  we  could  welcome  them  all 
were  they  put  by  themselves  at  the  end  of  the  book. 
But,  as  it  is,  they  are  out  of  proportion  and  out  of  place 
and  mar  our  Merrimacking  dreadfully.  We  were  bid 
to  a  river-party,  —  not  to  be  preached  at."  After  dis 
tributing  praise  and  blame  over  the  poetical  interludes, 
Lowell  closes  his  review  with  the  words:  "Since  we 
have  found  fault  with  what  we  may  be  allowed  to  call 
worsification,  we  should  say  that  the  prose  work  is  done 
conscientiously  and  neatly.  The  style  is  compact,  and 
the  language  has  an  antique  purity  like  wine  grown 
colorless  with  age." 

In  spite  of  the  generous  reception  which  the  book 
had  thus  at  the  hands  of  men  like  Alcott,  Ripley,  and 
Lowell,  the  public  was  indifferent  enough.  Thoreau 
recounts  the  issue  of  the  venture  with  grim  humor  in 
an  entry  in  his  diary,  October  28,  1853,  after  the  book 
had  been  in  the  bookstores  for  four  v,ears.  "  For  a  year 
or  two  past  my  publisher,  falsely  so  called,  has  been 
writing  from  time  to  time  to  ask  what  disposition  should 
be  made  of  the  copies  of  '  A  Week  on  the  Concord  and 
Merrimack  Rivers'  still  on  hand,  and  at  last  suggest 
ing  that  he  had  use  for  the  room  they  occupied  in  his 
cellar.  So  I  had  them  all  sent  to  me  here,  and  they  have 
arrived  to-day  by  express,  filling  the  man's  wagon,  — 


xlvi  INTRODUCTORY  NOTE 

706  copies  out  of  an  edition  of  1000  which  I  bought  of 
Munroe  four  years  ago  and  have  been  ever  since  paying 
for,  and  have  not  quite  paid  for  yet.  The  wares  are  sent 
to  me  at  last,  and  I  have  an  opportunity  to  examine 
my  purchase.  They  are  something  more  substantial 
than  fame,  as  my  back  knows,  which  has  borne  them 
up  two  flights  of  stairs  to  a  place  similar  to  that  to 
which  they  trace  their  origin.  Of  the  remaining  two 
hundred  and  ninety  and  odd,  seventy -five  were  given 
away,  the  rest  sold.  I  have  now  a  library  of  nearly 
nine  hundred  volumes,  over  seven  hundred  of  which  I 
wrote  myself.  Is  it  not  well  that  the  author  should 
behold  the  fruits  of  his  labor  ?  My  works  are  piled  up 
on  one  side  of  my  chamber  half  as  high  as  my  head,  my 
opera  omnia.  This  is  authorship;  these  are  the  work  of 
my  brain.  There  was  just  one  piece  of  good  luck  in  the 
venture.  The  unbound  were  tied  up  by  the  printer  four 
years  ago  in  stout  paper  wrappers,  and  inscribed,  — 
H.  D.  Thoreau's 
Concord  River 

50  cops. 

So  Munroe  had  only  to  cross  out  'River'  and  write 
4  Mass.,'  and  deliver  them  to  the  expressman  at  once. 
I  can  see  now  what  I  write  for,  the  result  of  my  labors. 
Nevertheless,  in  spite  of  this  result,  sitting  beside  the 
inert  mass  of  my  works,  I  take  up  my  pen  to-night  to 
record  what  thought  or  experience  I  may  have  had, 
with  as  much  satisfaction  as  ever.  Indeed,  I  believe 
that  this  result  is  more  inspiring  and  better  for  me  than 
if  a  thousand  had  bought  my  wares.  It  affects  my  pri 
vacy  less  and  leaves  me  freer." 


INTRODUCTORY  NOTE  xlvii 

We  have  quoted  from  the  judgments  of  Alcott  and 
Lowell  on  the  book  because  one  is  curious  to  know  how 
the  contemporaries  of  Thoreau  regarded  his  work;  later 
critics  have  the  advantage  and  disadvantage  of  seeing 
such  writing  through  an  atmosphere  charged  with  many 
men's  breathing  of  criticism  and  appreciation.  Lowell 
himself,  when  he  returned  to  Thoreau  sixteen  years 
later,  had  in  a  measure  re-formed  his  appreciation.  But 
after  all,  no  judgment  of  an  author  is  quite  so  inter 
esting  as  that  which  the  author  himself  passes,  even 
though  one  has  to  correct  this  estimate  by  other  obser 
vations  on  the  author  and  his  work.  At  any  rate,  Tho 
reau  shall  be  the  last  here  to  comment  on  this  book :  — 

"I  thought  that  one  peculiarity  of  my  'Week'  was 
its  hypcethral  character,  to  use  an  epithet  applied  to 
those  Egyptian  temples  which  are  open  to  the  heavens 
above,  under  the  ether.  I  thought  that  it  had  little  of 
the  atmosphere  of  the  house  about  it,  but  might  wholly 
have  been  written,  as  in  fact  it  was  to  a  considerable 
extent,  out-of-doors.  It  was  only  at  a  late  period  in  writ 
ing  it,  as  it  happened,  that  I  used  any  phrases  implying 
that  I  lived  in  a  house  or  led  a  domestic  life.  I  trust  it 
does  not  smell  [so  much]  of  the  study  and  library,  even 
of  the  poet's  attic,  as  of  the  fields  and  woods ;  that  it  is 
a  hypsethral  or  unroofed  book,  lying  open  under  the 
ether  and  permeated  by  it,  open  to  all  weathers,  not 
easy  to  be  kept  on  a  shelf."  * 

1  Journal,  June  29,  1851. 


A  WEEK  ON  THE  CONCORD  AND 
MERRIMACK  RIVERS 


Where'er  thou  sail'st  who  sailed  with  me, 
Though  now  thou  climbest  loftier  mounts, 
And  fairer  rivers  dost  ascend, 
Be  thou  my  Muse,  my  Brother  — . 


I  am  bound,  I  am  bound,  for  a  distant  shore. 
By  a  lonely  isle,  by  a  far  Azore, 
There  it  is,  there  it  is,  the  treasure  I  seek, 
On  the  barren  sands  of  a  desolate  creek. 


I  sailed  up  a  river  with  a  pleasant  wind, 
New  lands,  new  people,  and  new  thoughts  to  find; 
Many  fair  reaches  and  headlands  appeared, 
And  many  dangers  were  there  to  be  feared; 
But  when  I  remember  where  I  have  been, 
And  the  fair  landscapes  that  I  have  seen, 
THOU  seemest  the  only  permanent  shore, 
The  cape  never  rounded,  nor  wandered  o'er. 


Fluminaque  obliquis  cinxit  declivia  ripis; 
Quse,  di versa  locis,  partim  sorbentur  ab  ipsa; 
In  mare  perveniunt  partim,  campoque  recepta 
Liberioris  aqua?  pro  ripis  litora  pulsant.     •   . 

He  confined  the  rivers  within  their  sloping  banks, 
Which  in  different  places  are  part  absorbed  by  the  earth, 
Part  reach  the  sea,  and  being  received  within  the  plain 
Of  its  freer  waters,  beat  the  shore  for  banks. 

OVID,  Met.  I.  39. 


—     — ^^ 


i   not 


Henry  David  Thoreau,  from  the  daguerreotype  taken  by 
Moxham  of  Worcester  about  1855 


s^\v$" 

x    *\VO»y\>  : 


CONCORD   RIVER 

Beneath  low  hills,  in  the  broad  interval 
Through  which  at  will  our  Indian  rivulet 
Winds  mindful  still  of  sannup  and  of  squaw, 
Whose  pipe  and  arrow  oft  the  plough  unburies, 
Here  in  pine  houses  built  of  new-fallen  trees, 
Supplanters  of  the  tribe,  the  farmers  dwell. 

EMEBSON. 

J.HE  Musketaquid,  or  Grass-ground  River,  though 
probably  as  old  as  the  Nile  or  Euphrates,  did  not 
begin  to  have  a  place  in  civilized  history  until  the  fame 
of  its  grassy  meadows  and  its  fish  attracted  settlers  out 
of  England  in  1635,  when  it  received  the  other  but 
kindred  name  of  CONCORD  from  the  first  plantation  on 
its  banks,  which  appears  to  have  been  commenced  in  a 
spirit  of  peace  and  harmony.  It  will  be  Grass-ground 
River  as  long  as  grass  grows  and  water  runs  here ;  it  will 
be  Concord  River  only  while  men  lead  peaceable  lives 
on  its  banks.  To  an  extinct  race  it  was  grass-ground, 
where  they  hunted  and  fished;  and  it  is  still  perennial 
grass-ground  to  Concord  farmers,  who  own  the  Great 
Meadows,  and  get  the  hay  from  year  to  year.  "  One 
branch  of  it,"  according  to  the  historian  of  Concord,  for 
I  love  to  quote  so  good  authority,  "rises  in  the  south 
part  of  Hopkinton,  and  another  from  a  pond  and  a  large 
cedar-swamp  in  Westborough,"  and  flowing  between 
Hopkinton  and  Southborough,  through  Framingham, 
and  between  Sudbury  and  Wayland,  where  it  is  some- 


4  CONCORD   RIVER 

times  called  Sudbury  River,  it  enters  Concord  at  the 
south  part  of  the  town,  and  after  receiving  the  North  or 
Assabet  River,  which  has  its  source  a  little  farther  to 
the  north  and  west,  goes  out  at  the  northeast  angle, 
and,  flowing  between  Bedford  and  Carlisle,  and  through 
Billerica,  empties  into  the  Merrimack  at  Lowell.  In 
Concord,  it  is  in  summer  from  four  to  fifteen  feet  deep, 
and  from  one  hundred  to  three  hundred  feet  wide,  but 
in  the  spring  freshets,  when  it  overflows  its  banks,  it 
is  in  some  places  nearly  a  mile  wide.  Between  Sud 
bury  and  Wayland  the  meadows  acquire  their  greatest 
breadth,  and  when  covered  with  water,  they  form  a 
handsome  chain  of  shallow  vernal  lakes,  resorted  to 
by  numerous  gulls  and  ducks.  Just  above  Sherman's 
Bridge,  between  these  towns,  is  the  largest  expanse ;  and 
when  the  wind  blows  freshly  in  a  raw  March  day,  heav 
ing  up  the  surface  into  dark  and  sober  billows  or  regular 
swells,  skirted  as  it  is  in  the  distance  with  alder  swamps 
and  smoke-like  maples,  it  looks  like  a  smaller  Lake 
Huron,  and  is  very  pleasant  and  exciting  for  a  landsman 
to  row  or  sail  over.  The  farmhouses  along  the  Sudbury 
shore,  which  rises  gently  to  a  considerable  height,  com 
mand  fine  water  prospects  at  this  season.  The  shore  is 
more  flat  on  the  Wayland  side,  and  this  town  is  the 
greatest  loser  by  the  flood.  Its  farmers  tell  me  that  thou 
sands  of  acres  are  flooded  now,  since  the  dams  have  been 
erected,  where  they  remember  to  have  seen  the  white 
honeysuckle  or  clover  growing  once,  and  they  could  go 
dry  with  shoes  only  in  summer.  Now  there  is  nothing 
but  blue-joint  and  sedge  and  cut-grass  there,  standing  in 
water  all  the  year  round.  For  a  long  time,  they  made  the 


CONCORD   RIVER  5 

most  of  the  driest  season  to  get  their  hay,  working  some 
times  till  nine  o'clock  at  night,  sedulously  paring  with 
their  scythes  in  the  twilight  round  the  hummocks  left 
by  the  ice;  but  now  it  is  not  worth  the  getting  when  they 
can  come  at  it,  and  they  look  sadly  round  to  their  wood- 
lots  and  upland  as  a  last  resource. 

It  is  worth  the  while  to  make  a  voyage  up  this  stream, 
if  you  go  no  farther  than  Sudbury,  only  to  see  how 
much  country  there  is  in  the  rear  of  us:  great  hills, 
and  a  hundred  brooks,  and  farmhouses,  and  barns,  and 
haystacks,  you  never  saw  before,  and  men  everywhere; 
Sudbury,  that  is  Southborough  men,  and  Wayland,  and 
Nine-Acre-Corner  men,  and  Bound  Rock,  where  four 
towns  bound  on  a  rock  in  the  river,  Lincoln,  Wayland, 
Sudbury,  Concord.  Many  waves  are  there  agitated  by 
the  wind,  keeping  nature  fresh,  the  spray  blowing  in 
your  face,  reeds  and  rushes  waving;  ducks  by  the 
hundred,  all  uneasy  in  the  surf,  in  the  raw  wind,  just 
ready  to  rise,  and  now  going  off  with  a  clatter  and 
a  whistling  like  riggers  straight  for  Labrador,  flying 
against  the  stiff  gale  with  reefed  wings,  or  else  circling 
round  first,  with  all  their  paddles  briskly  moving,  just 
over  the  surf,  to  reconnoitre  you  before  they  leave  these 
parts;  gulls  wheeling  overhead,  muskrats  swimming 
for  dear  life,  wet  and  cold,  with  no  fire  to  warm  them 
by  that  you  know  of,  their  labored  homes  rising  here  and 
there  like  haystacks ;  and  countless  mice  and  moles  and 
winged  titmice  along  the  sunny,  windy  shore;  cranber 
ries  tossed  on  the  waves  and  heaving  up  on  the  beach, 
their  little  red  skiffs  beating  about  among  the  alders ;  — 
such  healthy  natural  tumult  as  proves  the  last  day  is  not 


6  CONCORD   RIVER 

yet  at  hand.  And  there  stand  all  around  the  alders,  and 
birches,  and  oaks,  and  maples,  full  of  glee  and  sap, 
holding  in  their  buds  until  the  waters  subside.  You 
shall  perhaps  run  aground  on  Cranberry  Island,  only 
some  spires  of  last  year's  pipe-grass  above  water  to  show 
where  the  danger  is,  and  get  as  good  a  freezing  there  as 
anywhere  on  the  Northwest  Coast.  I  never  voyaged  so 
far  in  all  my  life.  You  shall  see  men  you  never  heard  of 
before,  whose  names  you  don't  know,  going  away  down 
through  the  meadows  with  long  ducking  guns,  with 
water-tight  boots  wading  through  the  fowl-meadow 
grass,  on  bleak,  wintry,  distant  shores,  with  guns  at 
half-cock;  and  they  shall  see  teal,  —  blue-winged,  green- 
winged,  —  sheldrakes,  whistlers,  black  ducks,  ospreys, 
and  many  other  wild  and  noble  sights  before  night,  such 
as  they  who  sit  in  parlors  never  dream  of.  You  shall  see 
rude  and  sturdy,  experienced  and  wise  men,  keeping 
their  castles,  or  teaming  up  their  summer's  wood,  or 
chopping  alone  in  the  woods;  men  fuller  of  talk  and 
rare  adventure  in  the  sun  and  wind  and  rain,  than  a 
chestnut  is  of  meat,  who  were  out  not  only  in  '75  and 
1812,  but  have  been  out  every  day  of  their  lives;  greater 
men  than  Homer,  or  Chaucer,  or  Shakespeare,  only  they 
never  got  time  to  say  so;  they  never  took  to  the  way  of 
writing.  Look  at  their  fields,  and  imagine  what  they 
might  write,  if  ever  they  should  put  pen  to  paper.  Or 
what  have  they  not  written  on  the  face  of  the  earth 
already,  clearing,  and  burning,  and  scratching,  and 
harrowing,  and  plowing,  and  subsoiling,  in  and  in,  and 
out  and  out,  and  over  and  over,  again  and  again,  erasing 
what  they  had  already  written  for  want  of  parchment. 


CONCORD   RIVER  7 

As  yesterday  and  the  historical  ages  are  past,  as  the 
work  of  to-day  is  present,  so  some  flitting  perspectives    v 
and  demi-experiences  of  the  life  that  is  in  nature  are  in 
time  veritably  future,  or  rather  outside  to  time,  perennial, 
young,  divine,  in  the  wind  and  rain  which  never  die. 

The  respectable  folks,  — 

Where  dwell  they? 

They  whisper  in  the  oaks, 

And  they  sigh  in  the  hay; 

Slimmer  and  winter,  night  and  day, 

Out  on  the  meadow,  there  dwell  they. 

They  never  die, 

Nor  snivel  nor  cry, 

Nor  ask  our  pity 

With  a  wet  eye. 

A  sound  estate  they  ever  mend, 

To  every  asker  readily  lend; 

To  the  ocean  wealth, 

To  the  meadow  health, 

To  Time  his  length, 

To  the  rocks  strength, 

To  the  stars  light, 

To  the  weary  night, 

To  the  busy  day, 

To  the  idle  play; 

And  so  their  good  cheer  never  ends, 

For  all  are  their  debtors  and  all  their  friends. 

Concord  River  is  remarkable  for  the  gentleness  of  its 
current,  which  is  scarcely  perceptible,  and  some  have 
referred  to  its  influence  the  proverbial  moderation  of 
the  inhabitants  of  Concord,  as  exhibited  in  the  Revolu 
tion,  and  on  later  occasions.  It  has  been  proposed  that 
the  town  should  adopt  for  its  coat  of  arms  a  field  verdant, 
with  the  Concord  circling  nine  times  round.  I  have  read 


8  CONCORD   RIVER 

that  a  descent  of  an  eighth  of  an  inch  in  a  mile  is  suffi 
cient  to  produce  a  flow.  Our  river  has,  probably,  very 
near  the  smallest  allowance.  The  story  is  current,  at 
any  rate,  though  I  believe  that  strict  history  will  not 
bear  it  out,  that  the  only  bridge  ever  carried  away  on 
the  main  branch,  within  the  limits  of  the  town,  was 
driven  up-stream  by  the  wind.  But  wherever  it  makes  a 
sudden  bend  it  is  shallower  and  swifter,  and  asserts  its 
title  to  be  called  a  river.  Compared  with  the  other  tribu 
taries  of  the  Merrimack,  it  appears  to  have  been  properly 
named  Musketaquid,  or  Meadow  River,  by  the  Indians. 
For  the  most  part,  it  creeps  through  broad  meadows, 
adorned  with  scattered  oaks,  where  the  cranberry  is 
found  in  abundance,  covering  the  ground  like  a  moss- 
bed.  A  row  of  sunken  dwarf  willows  borders  the  stream 
on  one  or  both  sides,  while  at  a  greater  distance  the 
meadow  is  skirted  with  maples,  alders,  and  other 
fluviatile  trees,  overrun  with  the  grape-vine,  which  bears 
fruit  in  its  season,  purple,  red,  white,  and  other  grapes. 
Still  farther  from  the  stream,  on  the  edge  of  the  firm 
land,  are  seen  the  gray  and  white  dwellings  of  the  inhab 
itants.  According  to  the  valuation  of  1831,  there  were 
in  Concord  two  thousand  one  hundred  and  eleven  acres, 
or  about  one  seventh  of  the  whole  territory,  in  meadow; 
this  standing  next  in  the  list  after  pasturage  and  unim 
proved  lands ;  and,  judging  from  the  returns  of  previous 
years,  the  meadow  is  not  reclaimed  so  fast  as  the  woods 
are  cleared. 

Let  us  here  read  what  old  Johnson  says  of  these 
meadows  in  his  "  Wonder- Working  Providence,"  which 
gives  the  account  of  New  England  from  1628  to  1652, 


CONCORD   RIVER  9 

and  see  how  matters  looked  to  him.  He  says  of  the 
Twelfth  Church  of  Christ  gathered  at  Concord:  "This 
town  is  seated  upon  a  fair  fresh  river,  whose  rivulets 
are  filled  with  fresh  marsh,  and  her  streams  with  fish, 
it  being  a  branch  of  that  large  river  of  Merrimack. 
Allwifes  and  shad  in  their  season  come  up  to  this  town, 
but  salmon  and  dace  cannot  come  up,  by  reason  of  the 
rocky  falls,  which  causeth  their  meadows  to  lie  much 
covered  with  water,  the  which  these  people,  together 
with  their  neighbor  town,  have  several  times  essayed  to 
cut  through  but  cannot,  yet  it  may  be  turned  another 
way  with  an  hundred  pound  charge  as  it  appeared." 
As  to  their  fanning  he  says:  "Having  laid  out  their 
estate  upon  cattle  at  5  to  20  pound  a  cow,  when  they 
came  to  winter  them  with  inland  hay,  and  feed  upon 
such  wild  fother  as  was  never  cut  before,  they  could  not 
hold  out  the  winter,  but,  ordinarily  the  first  or  second 
year  after  their  coming  up  to  a  new  plantation,  many  of 
their  cattle  died."  And  this  from  the  same  author:  "  Of 
the  Planting  of  the  19th  Church  in  the  Mattachusets' 
Government,  called  Sudbury:"  "This  year  [does  he 
mean  1654  ?]  the  town  and  church  of  Christ  at  Sudbury 
began  to  have  the  first  foundation  stones  laid,  taking 
up  her  station  in  the  inland  country,  as  her  elder  sister 
Concord  had  formerly  done,  lying  further  up  the  same 
river,  being  furnished  with  great  plenty  of  fresh  marsh, 
but,  it  lying  very  low  is  much  indamaged  with  land 
floods,  insomuch  that  when  the  summer  proves  wet  they 
lose  part  of  their  hay;  yet  are  they  so  sufficiently  pro 
vided  that  they  take  in  cattle  of  other  towns  to  winter." 
The  sluggish  artery  of  the  Concord  meadows  steals 


10  CONCORD   RIVER 

thus  unobserved  through  the  town,  without  a  murmur 
or  a  pulse-beat,  its  general  course  from  southwest  to 
northeast,  and  its  length  about  fifty  miles ;  a  huge  vol 
ume  of  matter,  ceaselessly  rolling  through  the  plains 
and  valleys  of  the  substantial  earth  with  the  moccasined 
tread  of  an  Indian  warrior,  making  haste  from  the  high 
places  of  the  earth  to  its  ancient  reservoir.  The  mur 
murs  of  many  a  famous  river  on  the  other  side  of  the 
globe  reach  even  to  us  here,  as  to  more  distant  dwellers 
on  its  banks;  many  a  poet's  stream,  floating  the  helms 
and  shields  of  heroes  on  its  bosom.  The  Xanthus  or 
Scamander  is  not  a  mere  dry  channel  and  bed  of  a 
mountain  torrent,  but  fed  by  the  ever-flowing  springs 
of  fame:  — 

"  And  thou  Simois,  that  as  an  arrowe,  clere 
Through  Troy  rennest,  aie  downward  to  the  sea;"  — 

and  I  trust  that  I  may  be  allowed  to  associate  our  muddy 
but  much  abused  Concord  River  with  the  most  famous 
in  history. 

"  Sure  there  are  poets  which  did  never  dream 
Upon  Parnassus,  nor  did  taste  the  stream 
Of  Helicon;  we  therefore  may  suppose 
Those  made  not  poets,  but  the  poets  those." 

The  Mississippi,  the  Ganges,  and  the  Nile,  those 
journeying  atoms  from  the  Rocky  Mountains,  the  Him- 
maleh,  and  Mountains  of  the  Moon,  have  a  kind  of 
personal  importance  in  the  annals  of  the  world.  The 
heavens  are  not  yet  drained  over  their  sources,  but  the 
Mountains  of  the  Moon  still  send  their  annual  tribute 
to  the  Pasha  without  fail,  as  they  did  to  the  Pharaohs, 


CONCORD  RIVER  11 

though  he  must  collect  the  rest  of  his  revenue  at  the 
point  of  the  sword.  Rivers  must  have  been  the  guides 
which  conducted  the  footsteps  of  the  first  travelers. 
They  are  the  constant  lure,  when  they  flow  by  our  doors, 
to  distant  enterprise  and  adventure;  and,  by  a  natu 
ral  impulse,  the  dwellers  on  their  banks  will  at  length 
accompany  their  currents  to  the  lowlands  of  the  globe, 
or  explore  at  their  invitation  the  interior  of  continents. 
They  are  the  natural  highways  of  all  nations,  not  only 
leveling  the  ground  and  removing  obstacles  from  the 
path  of  the  traveler,  quenching  his  thirst  and  bearing 
him  on  their  bosoms,  but  conducting  him  through  the 
most  interesting  scenery,  the  most  populous  portions  of 
the  globe,  and  where  the  animal  and  vegetable  kingdoms 
attain  their  greatest  perfection. 

I  had  often  stood  on  the  banks  of  the  Concord,  watch 
ing  the  lapse  of  the  current,  an  emblem  of  all  progress, 
following  the  same  law  with  the  system,  with  time,  and 
all  that  is  made;  the  weeds  at  the  bottom  gently  bend 
ing  down  the  stream,  shaken  by  the  watery  wind,  still 
planted  where  their  seeds  had  sunk,  but  ere  long  to  die 
and  go  down  likewise;  the  shining  pebbles,  not  yet 
anxious  to  better  their  condition,  the  chips  and  weeds, 
and  occasional  logs  and  stems  of  trees  that  floated  past, 
fulfilling  their  fate,  were  objects  of  singular  interest  to 
me,  and  at  last  I  resolved  to  launch  myself  on  its  bosom 
and  float  whither  it  would  bear  me. 


SATURDAY 

Come,  come,  my  lovely  fair,  and  let  us  try 
Those  rural  delicacies. 

QUABLES,  Christ s  Invitation  to  the  Soid. 

AT  length,  on  Saturday,  the  last  day  of  August,  1839, 
we  two,  brothers,  and  natives  of  Concord,  weighed 
anchor  in  this  river  port;  for  Concord,  too,  lies  under 
the  sun,  a  port  of  entry  and  departure  for  the  bodies  as 
well  as  the  souls  of  men;  one  shore  at  least  exempted 
from  all  duties  but  such  as  an  honest  man  will  gladly 
discharge.  A  warm,  drizzling  rain  had  obscured  the 
morning,  and  threatened  to  delay  our  voyage,  but  at 
length  the  leaves  and  grass  were  dried,  and  it  came  out 
a  mild  afternoon,  as  serene  and  fresh  as  if  Nature  were 
maturing  some  greater  scheme  of  her  own.  After  this 
long  dripping  and  oozing  from  every  pore,  she  began 
to  respire  again  more  healthily  than  ever.  So  with  a 
vigorous  shove  we  launched  our  boat  from  the  bank, 
while  the  flags  and  bulrushes  courtesied  a  God-speed, 
and  dropped  silently  down  the  stream. 

Our  boat,  which  had  cost  us  a  week's  labor  in  the 
spring,  was  in  form  like  a  fisherman's  dory,  fifteen  feet 
long  by  three  and  a  half  in  breadth  at  the  widest  part, 
painted  green  below,  with  a  border  of  blue,  with  refer 
ence  to  the  two  elements  in  which  it  was  to  spend  its 
existence.  It  had  been  loaded  the  evening  before  at  our 
door,  half  a  mile  from  the  river,  with  potatoes  and 


SATURDAY  13 

melons,  from  a  patch  which  we  had  cultivated,  and  a 
few  utensils ;  and  was  provided  with  wheels  in  order  to 
be  rolled  around  falls,  as  well  as  with  two  sets  of  oars, 
and  several  slender  poles  for  shoving  in  shallow  places, 
and  also  two  masts,  one  of  which  served  for  a  tent-pole 
at  night;  for  a  buffalo-skin  was  to  be  our  bed,  and  a 
tent  of  cotton  cloth  our  roof.  It  was  strongly  built,  but 
heavy,  and  hardly  of  better  model  than  usual.  If  rightly 
made,  a  boat  would  be  a  sort  of  amphibious  animal,  a 
creature  of  two  elements,  related  by  one  half  its  struc 
ture  to  some  swift  and  shapely  fish,  and  by  the  other  to 
some  strong-winged  and  graceful  bird.  The  fish  shows 
where  there  should  be  the  greatest  breadth  of  beam  and 
depth  in  the  hold;  its  fins  direct  where  to  set  the  oars, 
and  the  tail  gives  some  hint  for  the  form  and  position 
of  the  rudder.  The  bird  shows  how  to  rig  and  trim  the 
sails,  and  what  form  to  give  to  the  prow,  that  it  may 
balance  the  boat  and  divide  the  air  and  water  best. 
These  hints  we  had  but  partially  obeyed.  But  the  eyes, 
though  they  are  no  sailors,  will  never  be  satisfied  with 
any  model,  however  fashionable,  which  does  not  answer 
all  the  requisitions  of  art.  However,  as  art  is  all  of  a  ship 
but  the  wood,  and  yet  the  wood  alone  will  rudely  serve 
the  purpose  of  a  ship,  so  our  boat,  being  of  wood,  gladly 
availed  itself  of  the  old  law  that  the  heavier  shall  float 
the  lighter,  and  though  a  dull  water-fowl,  proved  a  suffi 
cient  buoy  for  our  purpose. 

"  Were  it  the  will  of  Heaven,  an  osier  bough 
Were  vessel  safe  enough  the  seas  to  plough." 

Some  village  friends  stood  upon  a  promontory  lower 
down  the  stream  to  wave  us  a  last  farewell;   but  we, 


14  A  WEEK 

having  already  performed  these  shore  rites,  with  excus 
able  reserve,  as  befits  those  who  are  embarked  on  un 
usual  enterprises,  who  behold  but  speak  not,  silently 
glided  past  the  firm  lands  of  Concord,  both  peopled 
cape  and  lonely  summer  meadow,  with  steady  sweeps. 
And  yet  we  did  unbend  so  far  as  to  let  our  guns  speak 
for  us,  when  at  length  we  had  swept  out  of  sight,  and 
thus  left  the  woods  to  ring  again  with  their  echoes ;  and 
it  may  be  many  russet-clad  children,  lurking  in  those 
broad  meadows,  with  the  bittern  and  the  woodcock  and 
the  rail,  though  wholly  concealed  by  brakes  and  hard- 
hack  and  meadow-sweet,  heard  our  salute  that  afternoon. 
We  were  soon  floating  past  the  first  regular  battle 
ground  of  the  Revolution,  resting  on  our  oars  between 
the  still  visible  abutments  of  that  "  North  Bridge  "  over 
which  in  April,  1775,  rolled  the  first  faint  tide  of  that 
war  which  ceased  not  till,  as  we  read  on  the  stone  on 
our  right,  it  "gave  peace  to  these  United  States."  As 
a  Concord  poet  has  sung :  — 

"By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood, 

Their  flag  to  April's  breeze  unfurled, 
Here  once  the  embattled  farmers  stood 
And  fired  the  shot  heard  round  the  world. 

"The  foe  long  since  in  silence  slept; 
Alike  the  conqueror  silent  sleeps; 
And  Time  the  ruined  bridge  has  swept 
Down  the  dark  stream  which  seaward  creeps." 

Our  reflections  had  already  acquired  a  historical 
remoteness  from  the  scenes  we  had  left,  and  we  ourselves 
essayed  to  sing :  — 


SATURDAY  15 

Ah,  't  is  in  vain  the  peaceful  din 

That  wakes  the  ignoble  town, 
Not  thus  did  braver  spirits  win 

A  patriot's  renown. 

There  is  one  field  beside  this  stream 

Wherein  no  foot  does  fall, 
But  yet  it  beareth  in  my  dream 

A  richer  crop  than  all. 

Let  me  believe  a  dream  so  dear, 

Some  heart  beat  high  that  day, 
Above  the  petty  Province  here, 

And  Britain  far  away; 

Some  hero  of  the  ancient  mould, 

Some  arm  of  knightly  worth, 
Of  strength  unbought,  and  faith  unsold, 

Honored  this  spot  of  earth; 

Who  sought  the  prize  his  heart  -described, 

And  did  not  ask  release, 
Whose  free-born  valor  was  not  bribed 

By  prospect  of  a  peace. 

The  men  who  stood  on  yonder  height 

That  day  are  long  since  gone; 
Not  the  same  hand  directs  the  fight 

And  monumental  stone. 

Ye  were  the  Grecian  cities  then, 

The  Romes  of  modern  birth, 
Where  the  New  England  husbandmen 

Have  shown  a  Roman  worth. 

In  vain  I  search  a  foreign  land 

To  find  our  Bunker  Hill, 
And  Lexington  and  Concord  stand 

By  no  Laconian  rill. 


16  A  WEEK 

With  such  thoughts  we  swept  gently  by  this  now 
peaceful  pasture-ground,  on  waves  of  Concord,  in  which 
was  long  since  drowned  the  din  of  war. 

But  since  we  sailed 
Some  things  have  failed, 
And  many  a  dream 
Gone  down  the  stream. 

Here  then  an  aged  shepherd  dwelt, 
Who  to  his  flock  his  substance  dealt, 
And  ruled  them  with  a  vigorous  crook, 
By  precept  of  the  sacred  Book; 
But  he  the  pierless  bridge  passed  o'er,' 
And  solitary  left  the  shore. 

Anon  a  youthful  pastor  came, 
Whose  crook  was  not  unknown  to  fame, 
His  lambs  he  viewed  with  gentle  glance, 
Spread  o'er  the  country's  wide  expanse, 
And  fed  with  "Mosses  from  the  Manse." 
Here  was  our  Hawthorne  in  the  dale, 
And  here  the  shepherd  told  his  tale. 

That  slight  shaft  had  now  sunk  behind  the  hills, 
and  we  had  floated  round  the  neighboring  bend,  and 
under  the  new  North  Bridge  between  Ponkawtasset  and 
the  Poplar  Hill,  into  the  Great  Meadows,  which,  like 
a  broad  moccasin-print,  have  leveled  a  fertile  and  juicy 
place  in  nature. 

On  Ponkawtasset,  since  we  took  our  way 
Down  this  still  stream  to  far  Billericay, 
A  poet  wise  has  settled,  whose  fine  ray 
Doth  often  shine  on  Concord's  twilight  day. 

Like  those  first  stars,  whose  silver  beams  on  high, 
Shining  more  brightly  as  the  day  goes  by, 


SATURDAY  17 

Most  travelers  cannot  at  first  descry, 

But  eyes  that  wont  to  range  the  evening  sky, 

And  know  celestial  lights,  do  plainly  see, 
And  gladly  hail  them,  numbering  two  or  three; 
For  lore  that 's  deep  must  deeply  studied  be, 
As  from  deep  wells  men  read  star-poetry. 

These  stars  are  never  paled,  though  out  of  sight, 
But  like  the  sun  they  shine  forever  bright; 
Ay,  they  are  suns,  though  earth  must  in  its  flight 
Put  out  its  eyes  that  it  may  see  their  light. 

Who  would  neglect  the  least  celestial  sound, 
Or  faintest  light  that  falls  on  earthly  ground, 
If  he  could  know  it  one  day  would  be  found 
That  star  in  Cygnus  whither  we  are  bound, 
And  pale  our  sun  with  heavenly  radiance  round  ? 

Gradually  the  village  murmur  subsided,  and  we 
seemed  to  be  embarked  on  the  placid  current  of  our 
dreams,  floating  from  past  to  future  as  silently  as  one 
awakes  to  fresh  morning  or  evening  thoughts.  We 
glided  noiselessly  down  the  stream,  occasionally  driving 
a  pickerel  or  a  bream  from  the  covert  of  the  pads,  and 
the  smaller  bittern  now  and  then  sailed  away  on  sluggish 
wings  from  some  recess  in  the  shore,  or  the  larger  lifted 
itself  out  of  the  long  grass  at  our  approach,  and  car 
ried  its  precious  legs  away  to  deposit  them  in  a  place  of 
safety.  The  tortoises  also  rapidly  dropped  into  the 
water,  as  our  boat  ruffled  the  surface  amid  the  willows, 
breaking  the  reflections  of  the  trees.  The  banks  had 
passed  the  height  of  their  beauty,  and  some  of  the 
brighter  flowers  showed  by  their  faded  tints  that  the 
season  was  verging  towards  the  afternoon  of  the  year; 


18  A  WEEK 

but  this  sombre  tinge  enhanced  their  sincerity,  and  in 
the  still  unabated  heats  they  seemed  like  the  mossy 
brink  of  some  cool  well.  The  narrow-leaved  willow 
(Salix  Purshiana)  lay  along  the  surface  of  the  water  in 
masses  of  light  green  foliage,  interspersed  with  the  large 
balls  of  the  button-bush.  The  small  rose-colored  poly- 
gonum  raised  its  head  proudly  above  the  water  on  either 
hand,  and  flowering  at  this  season  and  in  these  localities, 
in  front  of  dense  fields  of  the  white  species  which  skirted 
the  sides  of  the  stream,  its  little  streak  of  red  looked  very 
rare  and  precious.  The  pure  white  blossoms  of  the 
arrowhead  stood  in  the  shallower  parts,  and  a  few  cardi 
nals  on  the  margin  still  proudly  surveyed  themselves 
reflected  in  the  water,  though  the  latter,  as  well  as  the 
pickerel-weed,  was  now  nearly  out  of  blossom.  The 
snake-head  (Chelone  glabra)  grew  close  to  the  shore, 
while  a  kind  of  coreopsis,  turning  its  brazen  face  to  the 
sun,  full  and  rank,  and  a  tall  dull-red  flower  (Eupato- 
rium  purpureum,  or  trumpet-weed)  formed  the  rear 
rank  of  the  fluvial  array.  The  bright-blue  flowers  of 
the  soapwort  gentian  were  sprinkled  here  and  there  in 
the  adjacent  meadows,  like  flowers  which  Proserpine 
had  dropped,  and  still  farther  in  the  fields  or  higher  on 
the  bank  were  seen  the  purple  gerardia,  the  Virginian 
rhexia,  and  drooping  neottia  or  ladies'-tresses ;  while 
from  the  more  distant  waysides  which  we  occasionally 
passed,  and  banks  where  the  sun  had  lodged,  was 
reflected  still  a  dull-yellow  beam  from  the  ranks  of  tansy, 
now  past  its  prime.  In  short,  Nature  seemed  to  have 
adorned  herself  for  our  departure  with  a  profusion  of 
fringes  and  curls,  mingled  with  the  bright  tints  of  flowers, 


SATURDAY  19 

reflected  in  the  water.  But  we  missed  the  white  water- 
lily,  which  is  the  queen  of  river  flowers,  its  reign  being 
over  for  this  season.  He  makes  his  voyage  too  late,  per-  ^ 
haps,  by  a  true  water  clock  who  delays  so  long.  Many 
of  this  species  inhabit  our  Concord  water.  I  have  passed 
down  the  river  before  sunrise  on  a  summer  morning, 
between  fields  of  lilies  still  shut  in  sleep;  and  when,  at 
length,  the  flakes  of  sunlight  from  over  the  bank  fell  on 
the  surface  of  the  water,  whole  fields  of  white  blossoms 
seemed  to  flash  open  before  me,  as  I  floated  along,  like 
the  unfolding  of  a  banner,  so  sensible  is  this  flower 
to  the  influence  of  the  sun's  rays. 

As  we  were  floating  through  the  last  of  these  familiar 
meadows,  we  observed  the  large  and  conspicuous  flowers 
of  the  hibiscus,  covering  the  dwarf  willows  and  mingled 
with  the  leaves  of  the  grape,  and  wished  that  we  could 
inform  one  of  our  friends  behind  of  the  locality  of  this 
somewhat  rare  and  inaccessible  flower  before  it  was  too 
late  to  pluck  it;  but  we  were  just  gliding  out  of  sight 
of  the  village  spire  before  it  occurred  to  us  that  the 
farmer  in  the  adjacent  meadow  would  go  to  church  on 
the  morrow,  and  would  carry  this  news  for  us;  and  so 
by  the  Monday,  while  we  should  be  floating  on  the 
Merrimack,  our  friend  would  be  reaching  to  pluck  this 
blossom  on  the  bank  of  the  Concord. 

After  a  pause  at  Ball's  Hill,  the  St.  Anne's  of  Concord 
voyageurs,  not  to  say  any  prayer  for  the  success  of  our 
voyage,  but  to  gather  the  few  berries  which  were  still 
left  on  the  hills,  hanging  by  very  slender  threads,  we 
weighed  anchor  again,  and  were  soon  out  of  sight  of  our 
native  village.  The  land  seemed  to  grow  fairer  as  we  V 


20  A  WEEK 

withdrew  from  it.  Far  away  to  the  southwest  lay  the 
quiet  village,  left  alone  under  its  elms  and  buttonwoods 
in  mid-afternoon;  and  the  hills,  notwithstanding  their 
blue,  ethereal  faces,  seemed  to  cast  a  saddened  eye  on 
their  old  playfellows;  but,  turning  short  to  the  north, 
we  bade  adieu  to  their  familiar  outlines,  and  addressed 
ourselves  to  new  scenes  and  adventures.  Naught  was 
familiar  but  the  heavens,  from  under  whose  roof  the 
voyageur  never  passes ;  but  with  their  countenance,  and 
the  acquaintance  we  had  with  river  and  wood,  we 
trusted  to  fare  well  under  any  circumstances. 

From  this  point  the  river  runs  perfectly  straight  for  a 
mile  or  more  to  Carlisle  Bridge,  which  consists  of  twenty 
wooden  piers,  and  when  we  looked  back  over  it,  its 
surface  was  reduced  to  a  line's  breadth,  and  appeared 
like  a  cobweb  gleaming  in  the  sun.  Here  and  there 
might  be  seen  a  pole  sticking  up,  to  mark  the  place 
where  some  fisherman  had  enjoyed  unusual  luck,  and 
J  in  return  had  consecrated  his  rod  to  the  deities  who 
.  preside  over  these  shallows.  It  was  full  twice  as  broad 
as  before,  deep  and  tranquil,  with  a  muddy  bottom, 
and  bordered  with  willows,  beyond  which  spread  broad 
lagoons  covered  with  pads,  bulrushes,  and  flags. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  we  passed  a  man  on  the  shore 
fishing  with  a  long  birch  pole,  its  silvery  bark  left  on, 
and  a  dog  at  his  side,  rowing  so  near  as  to  agitate  his 
cork  with  our  oars,  and  drive  away  luck  for  a  season; 
and  when  we  had  rowed  a  mile  as  straight  as  an  arrow, 
with  our  faces  turned  towards  him,  and  the  bubbles  in 
our  wake  still  visible  on  the  tranquil  surface,  there  stood 
the  fisher  still  with  his  dog,  like  statues  under  the  other 


SATURDAY  21 

side  of  the  heavens,  the  only  objects  to  relieve  the  eye 
in  the  extended  meadow;  and  there  would  he  stand 
abiding  his  luck,  till  he  took  his  way  home  through  the 
fields  at  evening  with  his  fish.  Thus,  by  one  bait  or  ~; 
another,  Nature  allures  inhabitants  into  all  her  recesses. 
This  man  was  the  last  of  our  townsmen  whom  we  saw, 
and  we  silently  through  him  bade  adieu  to  our  friends. 
The  characteristics  and  pursuits  of  various  ages  and 
races  of  men  are  always  existing  in  epitome  in  every 
neighborhood.  The  pleasures  of  my  earliest  youth  have 
become  the  inheritance  of  other  men.  This  man  is  still 
a  fisher,  and  belongs  to  an  era  in  which  I  myself  have 
lived.  Perchance  he  is  not  confounded  by  many  know 
ledges,  and  has  not  sought  out  many  inventions;  but 
how  to  take  many  fishes  before  the  sun  sets,  with  his 
slender  birchen  pole  and  flaxen  line,  that  is  invention 
enough  for  him.  It  is  good  even  to  be  a  fisherman  in 
summer  and  in  winter.  Some  men  are  judges,  these 
August  days,  sitting  on  benches,  even  till  the  court  rises; 
they  sit  judging  there  honorably,  between  the  seasons 
and  between  meals,  leading  a  civil,  politic  life,  arbi 
trating  in  the  case  of  Spaulding  versus  Cummings,  it 
may  be,  from  highest  noon  till  the  red  vesper  sinks  into 
the  west.  The  fisherman,  meanwhile,  stands  in  three 
feet  of  water,  under  the  same  summer's  sun,  arbitrating 
in  other  cases  between  muck-worm  and  shiner,  amid 
the  fragrance  of  water-lilies,  mint,  and  pontederia,  lead 
ing  his  life  many  rods  from  the  dry  land,  within  a  pole's 
length  of  where  the  larger  fishes  swim.  Human  life  is 
to  him  very  much  like  a  river,  — 

"  renning  aie  downward  to  the  sea." 


22  A  WEEK 

A   ^  This  was  his  observation.   His  honor  made  a  great  dis 
covery  in  bailments. 

I  can  just  remember  an  old  brown-coated  man  who 
was  the  Walton  of  this  stream,  who  had  come  over 
from  Newcastle,  England,  with  his  son,  —  the  latter  a 
stout  and  hearty  man  who  had  lifted  an  anchor  in  his 
day.  A  straight  old  man  he  was,  who  took  his  way  in 
silence  through  the  meadows,  having  passed  the  period 
of  communication  with  his  fellows ;  his  old  experienced 
coat,  hanging  long  and  straight  and  brown  as  the  yellow 
pine  bark,  glittering  with  so  much  smothered  sunlight, 
if  you  stood  near  enough,  no  work  of  art  but  naturalized 
at  length.  I  often  discovered  him  unexpectedly  amid 
the  pads  and  the  gray  willows  when  he  moved,  fish 
ing  in  some  old  country  method,  —  for  youth  and  age 
then  went  a-fishing  together,  —  full  of  incommunicable 
thoughts,  perchance  about  his  own  Tyne  and  Northum 
berland.  He  was  always  to  be  seen  in  serene  afternoons 
haunting  the  river,  and  almost  rustling  with  the  sedge; 
so  many  sunny  hours  in  an  old  man's  life,  entrapping 
silly  fish;  almost  grown  to  be  the  sun's  familiar;  what 
need  had  he  of  hat  or  raiment  any,  having  served  out 
his  time,  and  seen  through  such  thin  disguises  ?  I  have 
seen  how  his  coeval  fates  rewarded  him  with  the  yellow 
perch,  and  yet  I  thought  his  luck  was  not  in  proportion 
to  his  years ;  and  I  have  seen  when,  with  slow  steps  and 
weighed  down  with  aged  thoughts,  he  disappeared  with 
his  fish  under  his  low-roofed  house  on  the  skirts  of  the 
village.  I  think  nobody  else  saw  him;  nobody  else 
remembers  him  now,  for  he  soon  after  died,  and  mi 
grated  to  new  Tyne  streams.  His  fishing  was  not  a  sport, 


SATURDAY  23 

nor  solely  a  means  of  subsistence,  but  a  sort  of  solemn 
sacrament  and  withdrawal  from  the  world,  just  as  the 
aged  read  their  Bibles. 

Whether  we  live  by  the  seaside,  or  by  the  lakes  and 
rivers,  or  on  the  prairie,  it  concerns  us  to  attend  to  the 
nature  of  fishes,  since  they  are  not  phenomena  confined 
to  certain  localities  only,  but  forms  and  phases  of  the  h'fe 
in  nature  universally  dispersed.  The  countless  shoals 
which  annually  coast  the  shores  of  Europe  and  America 
are  not  so  interesting  to  the  student  of  nature  as  the  more 
fertile  law  itself,  which  deposits  their  spawn  on  the  tops 
of  mountains  and  on  the  interior  plains;  the  fish  prin 
ciple  in  nature,  from  which  it  results  that  they  may  be 
found  in  water  in  so  many  places,  in  greater  or  less 
numbers.  The  natural  historian  is  not  a  fisherman  who 
prays  for  cloudy  days  and  good  luck  merely;  but  as 
fishing  has  been  styled  "  a  contemplative  man's  recrea 
tion,"  introducing  him  profitably  to  woods  and  water, 
so  the  fruit  of  the  naturalist's  observations  is  not  in  new 
genera  or  species,  but  in  new  contemplations  still,  and 
science  is  only  a  more  contemplative  man's  recreation. 
The  seeds  of  the  life  of  fishes  are  everywhere  dissemi 
nated,  whether  the  winds  waft  them,  or  the  waters  float 
them,  or  the  deep  earth  holds  them;  wherever  a  pond  is 
dug,  straightway  it  is  stocked  with  this  vivacious  race. 
They  have  a  lease  of  nature,  and  it  is  not  yet  out.  The 
Chinese  are  bribed  to  carry  their  ova  from  province  to 
province  in  jars  or  in  hollow  reeds,  or  the  water-birds  to 
transport  them  to  the  mountain  tarns  and  interior  lakes. 
There  are  fishes  wherever  there  is  a  fluid  medium,  and 


24  A  WEEK 

even  in  clouds  and  in  melted  metals  we  detect  their 
semblance.  Think  how  in  winter  you  can  sink  a  line 
down  straight  in  a  pasture  through  snow  and  through 
ice,  and  pull  up  a  bright,  slippery,  dumb,  subterranean 
silver  or  golden  fish!  It  is  curious,  also,  to  reflect  how 
they  make  one  family,  from  the  largest  to  the  smallest. 
The  least  minnow  that  lies  on  the  ice  as  bait  for  pickerel 
looks  like  a  huge  sea-fish  cast  up  on  the  shore.  In  the 
waters  of  this  town  there  are  about  a  dozen  distinct 
species,  though  the  inexperienced  would  expect  many 
more. 

It  enhances  our  sense  of  the  grand  security  and 
serenity  of  nature  to  observe  the  still  undisturbed 
economy  and  content  of  the  fishes  of  this  century,  their 
happiness  a  regular  fruit  of  the  summer.  The  fresh 
water  sun-fish,  bream,  or  ruff  (Pomotis  vulgaris),  as  it 
were  without  ancestry,  without  posterity,  still  represents 
the  fresh-water  sun-fish  in  nature.  It  is  the  most  com 
mon  of  all,  and  seen  on  every  urchin's  string;  a  simple 
and  inoffensive  fish,  whose  nests  are  visible  all  along  the 
shore,  hollowed  in  the  sand,  over  which  it  is  steadily 
poised  through  the  summer  hours  on  waving  fin.  Some 
times  there  are  twenty  or  thirty  nests  in  the  space  of 
a  few  rods,  two  feet  wide  by  half  a  foot  in  depth,  and 
made  with  no  little  labor,  the  weeds  being  removed, 
and  the  sand  shoved  up  on  the  sides,  like  a  bowl.  Here 
it  may  be  seen  early  in  summer  assiduously  brooding, 
and  driving  away  minnows  and  larger  fishes,  even  its 
own  species,  which  would  disturb  its  ova,  pursuing  them 
a  few  feet,  and  circling  round  swiftly  to  its  nest  again; 
the  minnows,  like  young  sharks,  instantly  entering  the 


SATURDAY  25 

empty  nests,  meanwhile,  and  swallowing  the  spawn, 
which  is  attached  to  the  weeds  and  to  the  bottom,  on 
the  sunny  side.  The  spawn  is  exposed  to  so  many  dan 
gers  that  a  very  small  proportion  can  ever  become  fishes, 
for  beside  being  the  constant  prey  of  birds  and  fishes,  a 
great  many  nests  are  made  so  near  the  shore,  in  shallow 
water,  that  they  are  left  dry  in  a  few  days,  as  the  river 
goes  down.  These  and  the  lamprey's  are  the  only  fishes' 
nests  that  I  have  observed,  though  the  ova  of  some 
species  may  be  seen  floating  on  the  surface.  The  breams 
are  so  careful  of  their  charge  that  you  may  stand  close  by 
in  the  water  and  examine  them  at  your  leisure.  I  have 
thus  stood  over  them  half  an  hour  at  a  time,  and  stroked 
them  familiarly  without  frightening  them,  suffering  them 
to  nibble  my  fingers  harmlessly,  and  seen  them  erect 
their  dorsal  fins  in  anger  when  my  hand  approached 
their  ova,  and  have  even  taken  them  gently  out  of  the 
water  with  my  hand;  though  this  cannot  be  accom 
plished  by  a  sudden  movement,  however  dexterous,  for 
instant  warning  is  conveyed  to  them  through  their  denser 
element,  but  only  by  letting  the  fingers  gradually  close 
about  them  as  they  are  poised  over  the  palm,  and  with 
the  utmost  gentleness  raising  them  slowly  to  the  surface. 
Though  stationary,  they  kept  up  a  constant  sculling 
or  waving  motion  with  their  fins,  which  is  exceedingly 
graceful,  and  expressive  of  their  humble  happiness ;  for 
unlike  ours,  the  element  in  which  they  live  is  a  stream 
which  must  be  constantly  resisted.  From  time  to  time 
they  nibble  the  weeds  at  the  bottom  or  overhanging  their 
nests,  or  dart  after  a  fly  or  a  worm.  The  dorsal  fin, 
besides  answering  the  purpose  of  a  keel,  with  the  anal, 


26  A  WEEK 

serves  to  keep  the  fish  upright,  for  in  shallow  water, 
where  this  is  not  covered,  they  fall  on  their  sides.  As 
you  stand  thus  stooping  over  the  bream  in  its  nest,  the 
edges  of  the  dorsal  and  caudal  fins  have  a  singular  dusty 
golden  reflection,  and  its  eyes,  which  stand  out  from  the 
head,  are  transparent  and  colorless.  Seen  in  its  native 
element,  it  is  a  very  beautiful  and  compact  fish,  perfect 
in  all  its  parts,  and  looks  like  a  brilliant  coin  fresh  from 
the  mint.  It  is  a  perfect  jewel  of  the  river,  the  green,  red, 
coppery,  and  golden  reflections  of  its  mottled  sides  being 
the  concentration  of  such  rays  as  struggle  through  the 
floating  pads  and  flowers  to  the  sandy  bottom,  and  in 
harmony  with  the  sunlit  brown  and  yellow  pebbles. 
Behind  its  watery  shield  it  dwells  far  from  many  acci 
dents  inevitable  to  human  life. 

There  is  also  another  species  of  bream  found  in  our 
river,  without  the  red  spot  on  the  operculum,  which, 
according  to  M.  Agassiz,  is  undescribed. 

The  common  perch  (Perca  flavescens,  which  name  de 
scribes  well  the  gleaming,  golden  reflections  of  its  scales 
as  it  is  drawn  out  of  the  water,  its  red  gills  standing 
out  in  vain  in  the  thin  element)  is  one  of  the  hand 
somest  and  most  regularly  formed  of  our  fishes,  and  at 
such  a  moment  as  this  reminds  us  of  the  fish  in  the 
picture  which  wished  to  be  restored  to  its  native  element 
until  it  had  grown  larger;  and  indeed  most  of  this  spe 
cies  that  are  caught  are  not  half  grown.  In  the  ponds 
there  is  a  light-colored  and  slender  kind,  which  swim  in 
shoals  of  many  hundreds  in  the  sunny  water,  in  company 
with  the  shiner,  averaging  not  more  than  six  or  seven 
inches  in  length,  while  only  a  few  larger  specimens  are 


SATURDAY  27 

found  in  the  deepest  water,  which  prey  upon  their  weaker 
brethren.  I  have  often  attracted  these  small  perch  to  the 
shore  at  evening,  by  rippling  the  water  with  my  fingers, 
and  they  may  sometimes  be  caught  while  attempting 
to  pass  inside  your  hands.  It  is  a  tough  and  heedless 
fish,  biting  from  impulse,  without  nibbling,  and  from 
impulse  refraining  to  bite,  and  sculling  indifferently 
past.  It  rather  prefers  the  clear  water  and  sandy  bot 
toms,  though  here  it  has  not  much  choice.  It  is  a  true 
fish,  such  as  the  angler  loves  to  put  into  his  basket  or 
hang  at  the  top  of  his  willow  twig,  in  shady  afternoons 
along  the  banks  of  the  stream.  So  many  unquestionable 
fishes  he  counts,  and  so  many  shiners,  which  he  counts 
and  then  throws  away.  Old  Josselyn  in  his  "  New  Eng 
land's  Rarities,"  published  in  1672,  mentions  the  Perch 
or  River  Partridge. 

The  chivin,  dace,  roach,  cousin  trout,  or  whatever 
else  it  is  called  (Leuciscus  pulchellus),  white  and  red,  is 
always  an  unexpected  prize,  which,  however,  any  angler 
is  glad  to  hook  for  its  rarity;  —  a  name  that  reminds  us 
of  many  an  unsuccessful  ramble  by  swift  streams,  when 
the  wind  rose  to  disappoint  the  fisher.  It  is  commonly  a 
silvery  soft-scaled  fish,  of  graceful,  scholarlike,  and  clas 
sical  look,  like  many  a  picture  in  an  English  book.  It 
loves  a  swift  current  and  a  sandy  bottom,  and  bites  inad 
vertently,  yet  not  without  appetite  for  the  bait.  The 
minnows  are  used  as  bait  for  pickerel  in  the  winter.  The 
red  chivin,  according  to  some,  is  still  the  same  fish,  only 
older,  or  with  its  tints  deepened  as  they  think  by  the 
darker  water  it  inhabits,  as  the  red  clouds  swim  in  the 
twilight  atmosphere.  He  who  has  not  hooked  the  red 


28  A  WEEK 

chivin  is  not  yet  a  complete  angler.  Other  fishes,  me- 
thinks,  are  slightly  amphibious,  but  this  is  a  denizen  of 
the  water  wholly.  The  cork  goes  dancing  down  the  swift- 
rushing  stream,  amid  the  weeds  and  sands,  when  sud 
denly,  by  a  coincidence  never  to  be  remembered,  emerges 
this  fabulous  inhabitant  of  another  element,  a  thing 
heard  of  but  not  seen,  as  if  it  were  the  instant  creation 
of  an  eddy,  a  true  product  of  the  running  stream.  And 
this  bright  cupreous  dolphin  was  spawned  and  has 
passed  its  life  beneath  the  level  of  your  feet  in  your  native 
fields.  Fishes,  too,  as  well  as  birds  and  clouds,  derive 
their  armor  from  the  mine.  I  have  heard  of  mackerel 
visiting  the  copper  banks  at  a  particular  season;  this 
fish,  perchance,  has  its  habitat  in  the  Coppermine  River. 
I  have  caught  white  chivin  of  great  size  in  the  Aboljack- 
nagesic,  where  it  empties  into  the  Penobscot,  at  the  base 
of  Mount  Ktaadn,  but  no  red  ones  there.  The  latter 
variety  seems  not  to  have  been  sufficiently  observed. 

The  dace  (Leuciscus  argenteus)  is  a  slight  silvery 
minnow,  found  generally  in  the  middle  of  the  stream 
where  the  current  is  most  rapid,  and  frequently  con 
founded  with  the  last  named. 

The  shiner  (Leudscus  chrysolcucus)  is  a  soft-scaled 
and  tender  fish,  the  victim  of  its  stronger  neighbors, 
found  in  all  places,  deep  and  shallow,  clear  and  turbid ; 
generally  the  first  nibbler  at  the  bait,  but,  with  its  small 
mouth  and  nibbling  propensities,  not  easily  caught.  It  is 
a  gold  or  silver  bit  that  passes  current  in  the  river,  its 
limber  tail  dimpling  the  surface  in  sport  or  flight.  I  have 
seen  the  fry,  when  frightened  by  something  thrown  into 
the  water,  leap  out  by  dozens,  together  with  the  dace, 


SATURDAY  29 

and  wreck  themselves  upon  a  floating  plank.  It  is 
the  little  light-infant  of  the  river,  with  body  armor  of 
gold  or  silver  spangles,  slipping,  gliding  its  life  through 
with  a  quirk  of  the  tail,  half  in  the  water,  half  in  the 
air,  upward  and  ever  upward  with  flitting  fin  to  more 
crystalline  tides,  yet  still  abreast  of  us  dwellers  on  the 
bank.  It  is  almost  dissolved  by  the  summer  heats.  A 
slighter  and  lighter-colored  shiner  is  found  in  one  of 
our  ponds. 

The  pickerel  (Esox  reticulatus),  the  swiftest,  wariest, 
and  most  ravenous  of  fishes,  which  Josselyn  calls  the 
Fresh-Water  or  River  Wolf,  is  very  common  in  the 
shallow  and  weedy  lagoons  along  the  sides  of  the  stream. 
It  is  a  solemn,  stately,  ruminant  fish,  lurking  under  the 
shadow  of  a  pad  at  noon,  with  still,  circumspect,  vora 
cious  eye,  motionless  as  a  jewel  set  in  water,  or  moving 
slowly  along  to  take  up  its  position,  darting  from  time 
to  time  at  such  unlucky  fish  or  frog  or  insect  as  comes 
within  its  range,  and  swallowing  it  at  a  gulp.  I  have 
caught  one  which  had  swallowed  a  brother  pickerel  half 
as  large  as  itself,  with  the  tail  still  visible  in  its  mouth, 
while  the  head  was  already  digested  in  its  stomach. 
Sometimes  a  striped  snake,  bound  to  greener  meadows 
across  the  stream,  ends  its  undulatory  progress  in  the 
same  receptacle.  They  are  so  greedy  and  impetuous 
that  they  are  frequently  caught  by  being  entangled  in 
the  line  the  moment  it  is  cast.  Fishermen  also  distin 
guish  the  brook  pickerel,  a  shorter  and  thicker  fish  than 
the  former. 

The  horned  pout  (Pimelodus  nebulosus),  sometimes 
called  Minister,  from  the  peculiar  squeaking  noise  it 


30  A  WEEK 

makes  when  drawn  out  of  the  water,  is  a  dull  and  blun 
dering  fellow,  and,  like  the  eel,  vespertinal  in  his  habits 
and  fond  of  the  mud.  It  bites  deliberately,  as  if  about  its 
business.  They  are  taken  at  night  with  a  mass  of  worms 
strung  on  a  thread,  which  catches  in  their  teeth,  some 
times  three  or  four,  with  an  eel,  at  one  pull.  They  are 
extremely  tenacious  of  life,  opening  and  shutting  their 
mouths  for  half  an  hour  after  their  heads  have  been  cut 
off;  a  bloodthirsty  and  bullying  race  of  rangers,  inhabit 
ing  the  fertile  river  bottoms,  with  ever  a  lance  in  rest, 
and  ready  to  do  battle  with  their  nearest  neighbor.  I 
have  observed  them  in  summer,  when  every  other  one 
had  a  long  and  bloody  scar  upon  his  back,  where  the 
skin  was  gone,  the  mark,  perhaps,  of  some  fierce  en 
counter.  Sometimes  the  fry,  not  an  inch  long,  are  seen 
darkening  the  shore  with  their  myriads. 

The  suckers  (Catostomi  Bostonienses  and  tuberculati), 
common  and  horned,  perhaps  on  an  average  the  largest 
of  our  fishes,  may  be  seen  in  shoals  of  a  hundred  or 
more,  stemming  the  current  in  the  sun,  on  their  mysteri 
ous  migrations,  and  sometimes  sucking  in  the  bait  which 
the  fisherman  suffers  to  float  toward  them.  The  former, 
which  sometimes  grow  to  a  large  size,  are  frequently 
caught  by  the  hand  in  the  brooks,  or  like  the  red  chivin 
are  jerked  out  by  a  hook  fastened  firmly  to  the  end  of  a 
stick,  and  placed  under  their  jaws.  They  are  hardly 
known  to  the  mere  angler,  however,  not  often  biting  at 
his  baits,  though  the  spearer  carries  home  many  a  mess 
in  the  spring.  To  our  village  eyes,  these  shoals  have  a 
foreign  and  imposing  aspect,  realizing  the  fertility  of  the 
seas. 


SATURDAY  31 

The  common  eel,  too  (Murcena  Bostoniensis),  the  only 
species  of  eel  known  in  the  State,  a  slimy,  squirming 
creature,  informed  of  mud,  still  squirming  in  the  pan,  is 
speared  and  hooked  up  with  various  success.  Methinks 
it  too  occurs  in  picture,  left  after  the  deluge,  in  many  a 
meadow  high  and  dry. 

In  the  shallow  parts  of  the  river,  where  the  current  is 
rapid  and  the  bottom  pebbly,  you  may  sometimes  see 
the  curious  circular  nests  of  the  lamprey  eel  (Petromy- 
zon  Americanus),  the  American  stone-sucker,  as  large 
as  a  cart-wheel,  a  foot  or  two  in  height,  and  sometimes 
rising  half  a  foot  above  the  surface  of  the  water.  They 
collect  these  stones,  of  the  size  of  a  hen's  egg,  with  their 
mouths,  as  their  name  implies,  and  are  said  to  fashion 
them  into  circles  with  their  tails.  They  ascend  falls  by 
clinging  to  the  stones,  which  may  sometimes  be  raised 
by  lifting  the  fish  by  the  tail.  As  they  are  not  seen  on 
their  way  down  the  streams,  it  is  thought  by  fishermen 
that  they  never  return,  but  waste  away  and  die,  clinging 
to  rocks  and  stumps  of  trees  for  an  indefinite  period;  a 
tragic  feature  in  the  scenery  of  the  river  bottoms  worthy 
to  be  remembered  with  Shakespeare's  description  of  the 
sea-floor.  They  are  rarely  seen  in  our  waters  at  present, 
on  account  of  the  dams,  though  they  are  taken  in  great 
quantities  at  the  mouth  of  the  river  in  Lowell.  Their 
nests,  which  are  very  conspicuous,  look  more  like  art 
than  anything  in  the  river. 

If  we  had  leisure  this  afternoon,  we  might  turn  out 
prow  up  the  brooks  in  quest  of  the  classical  trout  and  the 
minnows.  Of  the  last  alone,  according  to  M.  Agassiz, 
several  of  the  species  found  in  this  town  are  yet  unde- 


32  A   WEEK 

scribed.  These  would,  perhaps,  complete  the  list  of  our 
finny  contemporaries  in  the  Concord  waters. 

Salmon,  shad,  and  alewives  were  formerly  abundant 
here,  and  taken  in  weirs  by  the  Indians,  who  taught 
this  method  to  the  whites,  by  whom  they  were  used  as 
food  and  as  manure,  until  the  dam  and  afterward  the 
canal  at  Billerica,  and  the  factories  at  Lowell,  put  an 
end  to  their  migrations  hitherward ;  though  it  is  thought 
that  a  few  more  enterprising  shad  may  still  occasionally 
be  seen  in  this  part  of  the  river.  It  is  said,  to  account  for 
the  destruction  of  the  fishery,  that  those  who  at  that  time 
represented  the  interests  of  the  fishermen  and  the  fishes, 
remembering  between  what  dates  they  were  accus 
tomed  to  take  the  grown  shad,  stipulated  that  the  dams 
should  be  left  open  for  that  season  only,  and  the  fry, 
which  go  down  a  month  later,  were  consequently  stopped 
and  destroyed  by  myriads.  Others  say  that  the  fish-ways 
were  not  properly  constructed.  Perchance,  after  a  few 
thousands  of  years,  if  the  fishes  will  be  patient,  and  pass 
their  summers  elsewhere  meanwhile,  nature  will  have 
leveled  the  Billerica  dam,  and  the  Lowell  factories,  and 
the  Grass-ground  River  run  clear  again,  to  be  explored 
by  new  migratory  shoals,  even  as  far  as  the  Hopkinton 
pond  and  Westborough  swamp. 

One  would  like  to  know  more  of  that  race,  now 
extinct,  whose  seines  lie  rotting  in  the  garrets  of  their 
children,  who  openly  professed  the  trade  of  fishermen, 
and  even  fed  their  townsmen  creditably,  not  skulking 
through  the  meadows  to  a  rainy  afternoon  sport.  Dim 
visions  we  still  get  of  miraculous  draughts  of  fishes,  and 
heaps  uncountable  by  the  riverside,  from  the  tales  of 


SATURDAY  33 

our  seniors  sent  on  horseback  in  their  childhood  from 
the  neighboring  towns,  perched  on  saddle-bags,  with 
instructions  to  get  the  one  bag  filled  with  shad,  the  other 
with  alewives.  At  least  one  memento  of  those  days  may 
still  exist  in  the  memory  of  this  generation,  in  the 
familiar  appellation  of  a  celebrated  train-band  of  this 
town,  whose  untrained  ancestors  stood  creditably  at 
Concord  North  Bridge.  Their  captain,  a  man  of  pisca 
tory  tastes,  having  duly  warned  his  company  to  turn  out 
on  a  certain  day,  they,  like  obedient  soldiers,  appeared 
promptly  on  parade  at  the  appointed  time,  but,  unfortu 
nately,  they  went  undrilled,  except  in  the  manoeuvres 
of  a  soldier's  wit  and  unlicensed  jesting,  that  May  day; 
for  their  captain,  forgetting  his  own  appointment,  and 
warned  only  by  the  favorable  aspect  of  the  heavens,  as 
he  had  often  done  before,  went  a-fishing  that  afternoon, 
and  his  company  thenceforth  was  known  to  old  and 
young,  grave  and  gay,  as  "  The  Shad,"  and  by  the  youths 
of  this  vicinity  this  was  long  regarded  as  the  proper 
name  of  all  the  irregular  militia  in  Christendom.  But, 
alas!  no  record  of  these  fishers'  lives  remains  that  we 
know,  unless  it  be  one  brief  page  of  hard  but  unques 
tionable  history,  which  occurs  in  Day  Book  No.  4,  of  an 
old  trader  of  this  town,  long  since  dead,  which  shows 
pretty  plainly  what  constituted  a  fisherman's  stock  in 
trade  in  those  days.  It  purports  to  be  a  Fisherman's 
Account  Current,  probably  for  the  fishing  season  of  the 
year  1805,  during  which  months  he  purchased  daily  rum 
and  sugar,  sugar  and  rum,  N.  E.  and  W.  L,  "  one  cod 
line,"  "one  brown  mug,"  and  "a  line  for  the  seine;" 
rum  and  sugar,  sugar  and  rum,  "  good  loaf  sugar,"  and 


34  A  WEEK 

"good  brown,"  W.  I.  and  N.  E.,  in  short  and  uniform 
entries  to  the  bottom  of  the  page,  all  carried  out  in 
pounds,  shillings,  and  pence,  from  March  25  to  June  5, 
and  promptly  settled  by  receiving  "  cash  in  full "  at  the 
last  date.  But  perhaps  not  so  settled  altogether.  These 
were  the  necessaries  of  life  in  those  days;  with  salmon, 
shad,  and  alewives,  fresh  and  pickled,  he  was  thereafter 
independent  on  the  groceries.  Rather  a  preponderance 
of  the  fluid  elements ;  but  such  is  the  fisherman's  nature. 
I  can  faintly  remember  to  have  seen  this  same  fisher  in 
my  earliest  youth,  still  as  near  the  river  as  he  could  get, 
with  uncertain,  undulatory  step,  after  so  many  things 
had  gone  down-stream,  swinging  a  scythe  in  the  mea 
dow,  his  bottle  like  a  serpent  hid  in  the  grass ;  himself 
as  yet  not  cut  down  by  the  Great  Mower. 

Surely  the  fates  are  forever  kind,  though  Nature's 
laws  are  more  immutable  than  any  despot's,  yet  to  man's 
daily  life  they  rarely  seem  rigid,  but  permit  him  to  relax 
with  license  in  summer  weather.  He  is  not  harshly 
reminded  of  the  things  he  may  not  do.  She  is  very  kind 
and  liberal  to  all  men  of  vicious  habits,  and  certainly 
does  not  deny  them  quarter;  they  do  not  die  without 
priest.  Still  they  maintain  life  along  the  way,  keeping 
this  side  the  Styx,  still  hearty,  still  resolute,  "  never  bet 
ter  in  their  lives;"  and  again,  after  a  dozen  years  have 
elapsed,  they  start  up  from  behind  a  hedge,  asking  for 
work  and  wages  for  able-bodied  men.  Who  has  not  met 

such 

"a  beggar  on  the  way, 
Who  sturdily  could  gang  ?  .  .  . 
Who  cared  neither  for  wind  nor  wet, 
In  lands  where'er  he  past?" 


SATURDAY  35 

"That  bold  adopts  each  house  he  views,  his  own; 
Makes  every  purse  his  checquer,  and,  at  pleasure, 
Walks  forth,  and  taxes  all  the  world,  like  Caesar;"  — 

as  if  consistency  were  the  secret  of  health,  while  the  poor 
inconsistent  aspirant  man,  seeking  to  live  a  pure  life, 
feeding  on  air,  divided  against  himself,  cannot  stand, 
but  pines  and  dies  after  a  life  of  sickness,  on  beds  of 
down. 

The  unwise  are  accustomed  to  speak  as  if  some  were 
not  sick;  but  methinks  the  difference  between  men  in 
respect  to  health  is  not  great  enough  to  lay  much  stress 
upon.  Some  are  reputed  sick  and  some  are  not.  It 
often  happens  that  the  sicker  man  is  the  nurse  to  the 
sounder. 

Shad  are  still  taken  in  the  basin  of  Concord  River, 
at  Lowell,  where  they  are  said  to  be  a  month  earlier 
than  the  Merrimack  shad,  on  account  of  the  warmth  of 
the  water.  Still  patiently,  almost  pathetically,  with 
instinct  not  to  be  discouraged,  not  to  be  reasoned  with, 
revisiting  their  old  haunts,  as  if  their  stern  fates  would 
relent,  and  still  met  by  the  Corporation  with  its  dam. 
Poor  shad !  where  is  thy  redress  ?  When  Nature  gave 
thee  instinct,  gave  she  thee  the  heart  to  bear  thy  fate  ? 
Still  wandering  the  sea  in  thy  scaly  armor  to  inquire 
humbly  at  the  mouths  of  rivers  if  man  has  perchance  left 
them  free  for  thee  to  enter.  By  countless  shoals  loitering 
uncertain  meanwhile,  merely  stemming  the  tide  there,  in 
danger  from  sea  foes  in  spite  of  thy  bright  armor,  await 
ing  new  instructions,  until  the  sands,  until  the  water 
itself,  tell  thee  if  it  be  so  or  not.  Thus  by  whole  migrat 
ing  nations,  full  of  instinct,  which  is  thy  faith,  in  this 


36  A  WEEK 

backward  spring,  turned  adrift,  and  perchance  knowest 
not  where  men  do  not  dwell,  where  there  are  not  factories, 
in  these  days.  Armed  with  no  sword,  no  electric  shock, 
but  mere  shad,  armed  only  with  innocence  and  a  just 
cause,  with  tender  dumb  mouth  only  forward,  and  scales 
easy  to  be  detached.  I  for  one  am  with  thee,  and  who 
knows  what  may  avail  a  crowbar  against  that  Billerica 
dam  ?  —  Not  despairing  when  whole  myriads  have  gone 
to  feed  those  sea  monsters  during  thy  suspense,  but  still 
brave,  indifferent,  on  easy  fin  there,  like  shad  reserved 
for  higher  destinies.  Willing  to  be  decimated  for  man's 
behoof  after  the  spawning  season.  Away  with  the  super 
ficial  and  selfish  phil-anthropy  of  men,  —  who  knows 
what  admirable  virtue  of  fishes  may  be  below  low- water 
mark,  bearing  up  against  a  hard  destiny,  not  admired 
by  that  fellow-creature  who  alone  can  appreciate  it ! 
Who  hears  the  fishes  when  they  cry  ?  It  will  not  be  for 
gotten  by  some  memory  that  we  were  contemporaries. 
Thou  shalt  ere  long  have  thy  way  up  the  rivers,  up  all 
the  rivers  of  the  globe,  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  Yea,  even 
thy  dull  watery  dream  shall  be  more  than  realized.  If 
it  were  not  so,  but  thou  wert  to  be  overlooked  at  first 
and  at  last,  then  would  not  I  take  their  heaven.  Yes,  I 
say  so,  who  think  I  know  better  than  thou  canst.  Keep 
a  stiff  fin,  then,  and  stem  all  the  tides  thou  mayst 
meet. 

At  length  it  would  seem  that  the  interests,  not  of  the 
fishes  only,  but  of  the  men  of  Wayland,  of  Sudbury,  of 
Concord,  demand  the  leveling  of  that  dam.  Innumer 
able  acres  of  meadow  are  waiting  to  be  made  dry  land, 
wild  native  grass  to  give  place  to  English.  The  farmers 


SATURDAY  37 

stand  with  scythes  whet,  waiting  the  subsiding  of  the 
waters,  by  gravitation,  by  evaporation,  or  otherwise, 
but  sometimes  their  eyes  do  not  rest,  their  wheels  do  not 
roll,  on  the  quaking  meadow  ground  during  the  haying 
season  at  all.  So  many  sources  of  wealth  inaccessible. 
They  rate  the  loss  hereby  incurred  in  the  single  town  of 
Wayland  alone  as  equal  to  the  expense  of  keeping  a 
hundred  yoke  of  oxen  the  year  round.  One  year,  as  I 
learn,  not  long  ago,  the  farmers  standing  ready  to  drive 
their  teams  afield  as  usual,  the  water  gave  no  signs  of 
falling;  without  new  attraction  in  the  heavens,  without 
freshet  or  visible  cause,  still  standing  stagnant  at  an 
unprecedented  height.  All  hydrometers  were  at  fault; 
some  trembled  for  their  English,  even.  But  speedy  em 
issaries  revealed  the  unnatural  secret,  in  the  new  float- 
board,  wholly  a  foot  in  width,  added  to  their  already  too 
high  privileges  by  the  dam  proprietors.  The  hundred 
yoke  of  oxen,  meanwhile,  standing  patient,  gazing  wish 
fully  meadowward,  at  that  inaccessible  waving  native 
grass,  uncut  but  by  the  great  mower  Time,  who  cuts  so 
broad  a  swath,  without  so  much  as  a  wisp  to  wind  about 
their  horns. 

That  was  a  long  pull  from  Ball's  Hill  to  Carlisle 
Bridge,  sitting  with  our  faces  to  the  south,  a  slight  breeze 
rising  from  the  north;  but  nevertheless  water  still  runs 
and  grass  grows,  for  now,  having  passed  the  bridge  be 
tween  Carlisle  and  Bedford,  we  see  men  haying  far  off 
in  the  meadow,  their  heads  waving  like  the  grass  which 
they  cut.  In  the  distance  the  wind  seemed  to  bend  all 
alike.  As  the  night  stole  over,  such  a  freshness  was 


38  A  WEEK 

wafted  across  the  meadow  that  every  blade  of  cut  grass 
seemed  to  teem  with  life.  Faint  purple  clouds  began 
to  be  reflected  in  the  water,  and  the  cow-bells  tinkled 
louder  along  the  banks,  while,  like  sly  water-rats,  we 
stole  along  nearer  the  shore,  looking  for  a  place  to  pitch 
our  camp. 

At  length,  when  we  had  made  about  seven  miles,  as 
far  as  Billerica,  we  moored  our  boat  on  the  west  side  of  a 
little  rising  ground  which  in  the  spring  forms  an  island 
in  the  river.  Here  we  found  huckleberries  still  hanging 
upon  the  bushes,  where  they  seemed  to  have  slowly 
ripened  for  our  especial  use.  Bread  and  sugar,  and  cocoa 
boiled  in  river  water,  made  our  repast,  and  as  we  had 
drank  in  the  fluvial  prospect  all  day,  so  now  we  took  a 
draft  of  the  water  with  our  evening  meal  to  propitiate 
the  river  gods,  and  whet  our  vision  for  the  sights  it  was 
to  behold.  The  sun  was  setting  on  the  one  hand,  while 
our  eminence  was  contributing  its  shadow  to  the  night 
on  the  other.  It  seemed  insensibly  to  grow  lighter  as  the 
night  shut  in,  and  a  distant  and  solitary  farmhouse  was 
revealed,  which  before  lurked  in  the  shadows  of  the 
noon.  There  was  no  other  house  in  sight,  nor  any  culti 
vated  field.  To  the  right  and  left,  as  far  as  the  horizon, 
were  straggling  pine  woods  with  their  plumes  against  the 
sky,  and  across  the  river  were  rugged  hills,  covered  with 
shrub  oaks,  tangled  with  grape-vines  and  ivy,  with  here 
and  there  a  gray  rock  jutting  out  from  the  maze.  The 
sides  of  these  cliffs,  though  a  quarter  of  a  mile  distant, 
were  almost  heard  to  rustle  while  we  looked  at  them,  it 
was  such  a  leafy  wilderness;  a  place  for  fauns  and 
satyrs,  and  where  bats  hung  all  day  to  the  rocks,  and  at 


SATURDAY  39 

evening  flitted  over  the  water,  and  fireflies  husbanded 
their  light  under  the  grass  and  leaves  against  the  night. 
When  we  had  pitched  our  tent  on  the  hillside,  a  few  rods 
from  the  shore,  we  sat  looking  through  its  triangular 
door  in  the  twilight  at  our  lonely  mast  on  the  shore  just 
seen  above  the  alders,  and  hardly  yet  come  to  a  stand 
still  from  the  swaying  of  the  stream;  the  first  encroach 
ment  of  commerce  on  this  land.  There  was  our  port,  our 
Ostia.  That  straight,  geometrical  line  against  the  water 
and  the  sky  stood  for  the  last  refinements  of  civilized 
life,  and  what  of  sublimity  there  is  in  history  was  there 
symbolized. 

For  the  most  part,  there  was  no  recognition  of  human 
life  in  the  night;  no  human  breathing  was  heard,  only 
the  breathing  of  the  wind.  As  we  sat  up,  kept  awake 
by  the  novelty  of  our  situation,  we  heard  at  intervals 
foxes  stepping  about  over  the  dead  leaves,  and  brushing 
the  dewy  grass  close  to  our  tent,  and  once  a  musquash 
fumbling  among  the  potatoes  and  melons  in  our  boat; 
but  when  we  hastened  to  the  shore  we  could  detect  only 
a  ripple  in  the  water  ruffling  the  disk  of  a  star.  At  inter 
vals  we  were  serenaded  by  the  song  of  a  dreaming  spar 
row  or  the  throttled  cry  of  an  owl;  but  after  each  sound 
which  near  at  hand  broke  the  stillness  of  the  night,  each 
crackling  of  the  twigs,  or  rustling  among  the  leaves, 
there  was  a  sudden  pause,  and  deeper  and  more  con 
scious  silence,  as  if  the  intruder  were  aware  that  no  life 
was  rightfully  abroad  at  that  hour.  There  was  a  fire  in 
Lowell,  as  we  judged,  this  night,  and  we  saw  the  horizon 
blazing,  and  heard  the  distant  alarm-bells,  as  it  were  a 
faint  tinkling  music  borne  to  these  woods.  But  the  most 


40  A  WEEK 

constant  and  memorable  sound  of  a  summer's  night, 
which  we  did  not  fail  to  hear  every  night  afterward, 
though  at  no  time  so  incessantly  and  so  favorably  as 
now,  was  the  barking  of  the  house-dogs,  from  the  loudest 
and  hoarsest  bark  to  the  faintest  aerial  palpitation  under 
the  eaves  of  heaven,  from  the  patient  but  anxious  mastiff 
to  the  timid  and  wakeful  terrier,  at  first  loud  and  rapid, 
then  faint  and  slow,  to  be  imitated  only  in  a  whisper; 
wow-wow-wow-wow  —  wo  —  wo  —  w  —  w.  Even  in 
a  retired  and  uninhabited  district  like  this,  it  was  a 
sufficiency  of  sound  for  the  ear  of  night,  and  more  im 
pressive  than  any  music.  I  have  heard  the  voice  of  a 
hound,  just  before  daylight,  while  the  stars  were  shining, 
from  over  the  woods  and  river,  far  in  the  horizon,  when 
it  sounded  as  sweet  and  melodious  as  an  instrument. 
The  hounding  of  a  dog  pursuing  a  fox  or  other  animal 
in  the  horizon  may  have  first  suggested  the  notes  of  the 
hunting-horn  to  alternate  with  and  relieve  the  lungs  of 
the  dog.  This  natural  bugle  long  resounded  in  the  woods 
of  the  ancient  world  before  the  horn  was  invented.  The 
very  dogs  that  sullenly  bay  the  moon  from  farm-yards 
in  these  nights  excite  more  heroism  in  our  breasts  than 
all  the  civil  exhortations  or  war  sermons  of  the  age.  "  I 
would  rather  be  a  dog,  and  bay  the  moon,"  than  many 
a  Roman  that  I  know.  The  night  is  equally  indebted 
to  the  clarion  of  the  cock,  with  wakeful  hope,  from  the 
very  setting  of  the  sun,  prematurely  ushering  in  the 
dawn.  All  these  sounds,  the  crowing  of  cocks,  the  baying 
of  dogs,  and  the  hum  of  insects  at  noon,  are  the  evidence 
of  nature's  health  or  sound  state.  Such  is  the  never- 
failing  beauty  and  accuracy  of  language,  the  most  per- 


SATURDAY  41 

feet  art  in  the  world;   the  chisel  of  a  thousand  years 
retouches  it. 

At  length  the  antepenultimate  and  drowsy  hours  drew 
on,  and  all  sounds  were  denied  entrance  to  our  ears. 

Who  sleeps  by  day  and  walks  by  night, 
Will  meet  no  spirit,  but  some  sprite. 


SUNDAY 

The  river  calmly  flows, 
Through  shining  banks,  through  lonely  glen, 
Where  the  owl  shrieks,  though  ne'er  the  cheer  of  men 

Has  stirred  its  mute  repose, 
Still  if  you  should  walk  there,  you  would  go  there  again. 

CHANNING. 

The  Indians  tell  us  of  a  beautiful  river  lying  far  to  the  south,  which 
they  call  Merrimack.  —  SIEUE  DE  MONTS,  Relations  of  the  Jesuits, 
1604. 

AN  the  morning  the  river  and  adjacent  country  were 
covered  with  a  dense  fog,  through  which  the  smoke  of 
our  fire  curled  up  like  a  still  subtiler  mist;  but  before 
we  had  rowed  many  rods,  the  sun  arose  and  the  fog 
rapidly  dispersed,  leaving  a  slight  steam  only  to  curl 
along  the  surface  of  the  water.  It  was  a  quiet  Sunday 
morning,  with  more  of  the  auroral  rosy  and  white  than 
of  the  yellow  light  in  it,  as  if  it  dated  from  earlier  than 
the  fall  of  man,  and  still  preserved  a  heathenish  integ 
rity:  — 

An  early  unconverted  Saint, 

Free  from  noontide  or  evening  taint, 

Heathen  without  reproach, 

That  did  upon  the  civil  day  encroach, 

And  ever  since  its  birth 

Had  trod  the  outskirts  of  the  earth. 

But  the  impressions  which  the  morning  makes  vanish 
with  its  dews,  and  not  even  the  most  "  persevering  mor 
tal  "  can  preserve  the  memory  of  its  freshness  to  midday. 


SUNDAY  43 

As  we  passed  the  various  islands,  or  what  were  islands 
in  the  spring,  rowing  with  our  backs  down-stream,  we 
gave  names  to  them.  The  one  on  which  we  had  camped 
we  called  Fox  Island,  and  one  fine  densely  wooded  island 
surrounded  by  deep  water  and  overrun  by  grape-vines, 
which  looked  like  a  mass  of  verdure  and  of  flowers  cast 
upon  the  waves,  we  named  Grape  Island.  From  Ball's 
Hill  to  Billerica  meeting-house,  the  river  was  still  twice 
as  broad  as  in  Concord,  a  deep,  dark,  and  dead  stream, 
flowing  between  gentle  hills  and  sometimes  cliffs,  and 
well  wooded  all  the  way.  It  was  a  long  woodland  lake 
bordered  with  willows.  For  long  reaches  we  could  see 
neither  house  nor  cultivated  field,  nor  any  sign  of  the 
vicinity  of  man.  Now  we  coasted  along  some  shallow 
shore  by  the  edge  of  a  dense  palisade  of  bulrushes,  which 
straightly  bounded  the  water  as  if  clipped  by  art, 
reminding  us  of  the  reed  forts  of  the  East-Indians  of 
which  we  had  read;  and  now  the  bank,  slightly  raised, 
was  overhung  with  graceful  grasses  and  various  species 
of  brake,  whose  downy  stems  stood  closely  grouped  and 
naked  as  in  a  vase,  while  their  heads  spread  several  feet 
on  either  side.  The  dead  limbs  of  the  willow  were 
rounded  and  adorned  by  the  climbing  mikania  (Mikania 
scandens),  which  filled  every  crevice  in  the  leafy  bank, 
contrasting  agreeably  with  the  gray  bark  of  its  supporter 
and  the  balls  of  the  button-bush.  The  water  willow 
(Salix  Purshiana),  when  it  is  of  large  size  and  entire,  is 
the  most  graceful  and  ethereal  of  our  trees.  Its  masses 
of  light-green  foliage,  piled  one  upon  another  to  the 
height  of  twenty  or  thirty  feet,  seemed  to  float  on  the 
surface  of  the  water,  while  the  slight  gray  stems  and  the 


44  A  WEEK 

shore  were  hardly  visible  between  them.  No  tree  is  so 
wedded  to  the  water,  and  harmonizes  so  well  with  still 
streams.  It  is  even  more  graceful  than  the  weeping  wil 
low,  or  any  pendulous  trees  which  dip  their  branches  in 
the  stream  instead  of  being  buoyed  up  by  it.  Its  limbs 
curved  outward  over  the  surface  as  if  attracted  by  it.  It 
had  not  a  New  England  but  an  Oriental  character, 
reminding  us  of  trim  Persian  gardens,  of  Haroun  Al- 
raschid,  and  the  artificial  lakes  of  the  East. 

As  we  thus  dipped  our  way  along  between  fresh  masses 
of  foliage  overrun  with  the  grape  and  smaller  flower 
ing  vines,  the  surface  was  so  calm,  and  both  air  and 
water  so  transparent,  that  the  flight  of  a  kingfisher  or 
robin  over  the  river  was  as  distinctly  seen  reflected  in  the 
water  below  as  in  the  air  above.  The  birds  seemed  to 
flit  through  submerged  groves,  alighting  on  the  yielding 
sprays,  and  their  clear  notes  to  come  up  from  below. 
We  were  uncertain  whether  the  water  floated  the  land, 
or  the  land  held  the  water  in  its  bosom.  It  was  such  a 
season,  in  short,  as  that  in  which  one  of  our  Concord 
poets  sailed  on  its  stream,  and  sung  its  quiet  glories. 

"There  is  an  inward  voice,  that  in  the  stream 
Sends  forth  its  spirit  to  the  listening  ear, 
And  in  a  calm  content  it  floweth  on, 
Like  wisdom,  welcome  with  its  own  respect. 
Clear  in  its  breast  lie  all  these  beauteous  thoughts, 
It  doth  receive  the  green  and  graceful  trees, 
And  the  gray  rocks  smile  in  its  peaceful  arms." 

And  more  he  sung,  but  too  serious  for  our  page.  For 
every  oak  and  birch,  too,  growing  on  the  hilltop,  as  well 
as  for  these  elms  and  willows,  we  knew  that  there  was  a 


Carlisle  Reach,  Concord  River 


land, 


SUNDAY  45 

graceful  ethereal  and  ideal  tree  making  down  from 
the  roots,  and  sometimes  Nature  in  high  tides  brings 
her  mirror  to  its  foot  and  makes  it  visible.  The  stillness 
was  intense  and  almost  conscious,  as  if  it  were  a  nat 
ural  Sabbath,  and  we  fancied  that  the  morning  was  the 
evening  of  a  celestial  day.  The  air  was  so  elastic  and 
crystalline  that  it  had  the  same  effect  on  the  landscape 
that  a  glass  has  on  a  picture,  to  give  it  an  ideal  remote 
ness  and  perfection.  The  landscape  was  clothed  in  a 
mild  and  quiet  light,  in  which  the  woods  and  fences 
checkered  and  partitioned  it  with  new  regularity,  and 
.  rough  and  uneven  fields  stretched  away  with  lawn-like 
smoothness  to  the  horizon,  and  the  clouds,  finely  distinct 
and  picturesque,  seemed  a  fit  drapery  to  hang  over 
fairyland.  The  world  seemed  decked  for  some  holi 
day  or  prouder  pageantry,  with  silken  streamers  flying, 
and  the  course  of  our  lives  to  wind  on  before  us  like  a 
green  lane  into  a  country  maze,  at  the  season  when  fruit- 
trees  are  in  blossom. 

Why  should  not  our  whole  life  and  its  scenery  be  actu 
ally  thus  fair  and  distinct  ?  All  our  lives  want  a  suitable 
background.  They  should  at  least,  like  the  life  of  the 
anchorite,  be  as  impressive  to  behold  as  objects  in  the 
desert,  a  broken  shaft  or  crumbling  mound  against  a 
limitless  horizon.  Character  always  secures  for  itself 
this  advantage,  and  is  thus  distinct  and  unrelated  to  near 
or  trivial  objects,  whether  things  or  persons.  On  this 
same  stream  a  maiden  once  sailed  in  my  boat,  thus  unat 
tended  but  by  invisible  guardians,  and  as  she  sat  in  the 
prow  there  was  nothing  but  herself  between  the  steers 
man  and  the  sky.  I  could  then  say  with  the  poet,  — 


46  A  WEEK 

"Sweet  falls  the  summer  air 
Over  her  frame  who  sails  with  me; 
Her  way  like  that  is  beautifully  free, 

Her  nature  far  more  rare, 
And  is  her  constant  heart  of  virgin  purity." 

At  evening,  still  the  very  stars  seem  but  this  maiden's 
emissaries  and  reporters  of  her  progress. 

Low  in  the  eastern  sky 
Is  set  thy  glancing  eye ; 
And  though  its  gracious  light 
Ne'er  riseth  to  my  sight, 

Yet  every  star  that  climbs ^ 

Above  the  gnarled  limbs 

Of  yonder  hill, 
Conveys  thy  gentle  will. 

Believe  I  knew  thy  thought, 
And  that  the  zephyrs  brought 
Thy  kindest  wishes  through, 
As  mine  they  bear  to  you, 
That  some  attentive  cloud 
Did  pause  amid  the  crowd 

Over  my  head, 
While  gentle  things  were  said. 

Believe  the  thrushes  sung, 
And  that  the  flower-bells  rung, 
That  herbs  exhaled  their  scent, 
And  beasts  knew  what  was  meant, 
The  trees  a  welcome  waved, 
And  lakes  their  margins  laved, 

When  thy  free  mind 
To  my  retreat  did  wind. 

It  was  a  summer  eve, 
The  air  did  gently  heave 


SUNDAY  47 

While  yet  a  low-hung  cloud 
Thy  eastern  skies  did  shroud  ; 
The  lightning's  silent  gleam, 
Startling  my  drowsy  dream, 

Seemed  like  the  flash 
Under  thy  dark  eyelash. 

Still  will  I  strive  to  be 
As  if  thou  wert  with  me  ; 
Whatever  path  I  take, 
It  shall  be  for  thy  sake, 
Of  gentle  slope  and  wide, 
As  thou  wert  by  my  side, 

Without  a  root 
To  trip  thy  gentle  foot. 

I'll  walk  with  gentle  pace, 
And  choose  the  smoothest  place 
And  careful  dip  the  oar, 
And  shun  the  winding  shore, 
And  gently  steer  my  boat 
Where  water-lilies  float, 

And  cardinal-flowers 
Stand  in  their  sylvan  bowers. 

It  required  some  rudeness  to  disturb  with  our  boat 
the  mirror-like  surface  of  the  water,  in  which  every  twig 
and  blade  of  grass  was  so  faithfully  reflected ;  too  faith 
fully  indeed  for  art  to  imitate,  for  only  Nature  may 
exaggerate  herself.  The  shallowest  still  water  is  unfath 
omable.  Wherever  the  trees  and  skies  are  reflected, 
there  is  more  than  Atlantic  depth,  and  no  danger  of 
fancy  running  aground.  We  notice  that  it  required  a 
separate  intention  of  the  eye,  a  more  free  and  abstracted 
vision,  to  see  the  reflected  trees  and  the  sky,  than  to 
see  the  river  bottom  merely;  and  so  are  there  manifold 


48  A  WEEK 

visions  in  the  direction  of  every  object,  and  even  the  most 
opaque  reflect  the  heavens  from  their  surface.  Some 
men  have  their  eyes  naturally  intended  to  the  one  and 
some  to  the  other  object. 

"A  man  that  looks  on  glass, 
On  it  may  stay  his  eye, 
Or,  if  he  pleaseth,  through  it  pass, 
And  the  heavens  espy." 

Two  men  in  a  skiff,  whom  we  passed  hereabouts, 
floating  buoyantly  amid  the  reflections  of  the  trees,  like 
a  feather  in  mid-air,  or  a  leaf  which  is  wafted  gently  from 
its  twig  to  the  water  without  turning  over,  seemed  still  in 
their  element,  and  to  have  very  delicately  availed  them 
selves  of  the  natural  laws.  Their  floating  there  was  a 
beautiful  and  successful  experiment  in  natural  philoso 
phy,  and  it  served  to  ennoble  in  our  eyes  the  art  of  navi 
gation;  for  as  birds  fly  and  fishes  swim,  so  these  men 
sailed.  It  reminded  us  how  much  fairer  and  nobler  all 
the  actions  of  man  might  be,  and  that  our  life  in  its 
whole  economy  might  be  as  beautiful  as  the  fairest  works 
of  art  or  nature. 

The  sun  lodged  on  the  old  gray  cliffs,  and  glanced 
from  every  pad;  the  bulrushes  and  flags  seemed  to  re 
joice  in  the  delicious  light  and  air;  the  meadows  were 
a-drinking  at  their  leisure ;  the  frogs  sat  meditating,  all 
Sabbath  thoughts,  summing  up  their  week,  with  one  eye 
out  on  the  golden  sun,  and  one  toe  upon  a  reed,  eying 
the  wondrous  universe  in  which  they  act  their  part ;  the 
fishes  swam  more  staid  and  soberly,  as  maidens  go  to 
church;  shoals  of  golden  and  silver  minnows  rose  to  the 
surface  to  behold  the  heavens,  and  then  sheered  off  into 


SUNDAY  49 

more  sombre  aisles;  they  swept  by  as  if  moved  by  one 
mind,  continually  gliding  past  each  other,  and  yet  pre 
serving  the  form  of  their  battalion  unchanged,  as  if  they 
were  still  embraced  by  the  transparent  membrane  which 
held  the  spawn;  a  young  band  of  brethren  and  sisters 
trying  their  new  fins;  now  they  wheeled,  now  shot 
ahead,  and  when  we  drove  them  to  the  shore  and  cut 
them  off,  they  dexterously  tacked  and  passed  under 
neath  the  boat.  Over  the  old  wooden  bridges  no  traveler 
crossed,  and  neither  the  river  nor  the  fishes  avoided  to 
glide  between  the  abutments. 

Here  was  a  village  not  far  off  behind  the  woods, 
Billerica,  settled  not  long  ago,  and  the  children  still 
bear  the  names  of  the  first  settlers  in  this  late  '*  howling 
wilderness ; "  yet  to  all  intents  and  purposes  it  is  as  old 
as  Fernay  or  as  Mantua,  an  old  gray  town  where  men 
grow  old  and  sleep  already  under  moss-grown  monu 
ments,  —  outgrow  their  usefulness.  This  is  ancient  Bil 
lerica  (Villarica?),  now  in  its  dotage,  named  from  the 
English  Billericay,  and  whose  Indian  name  was  Shaw- 
shine.  I  never  heard  that  it  was  young.  See,  is  not 
nature  here  gone  to  decay,  farms  all  run  out,  meeting 
house  grown  gray  and  racked  with  age  ?  If  you  would 
know  of  its  early  youth,  ask  those  old  gray  rocks  in  the 
pasture.  It  has  a  bell  that  sounds  sometimes  as  far  as 
Concord  woods ;  I  have  heard  that,  —  ay,  hear  it  now. 
No  wonder  that  such  a  sound  startled  the  dreaming 
Indian,  and  frightened  his  game,  when  the  first  bells 
were  swung  on  trees,  and  sounded  through  the  forest 
beyond  the  plantations  of  the  white  man ;  but  to-day  I 
like  best  the  echo  amid  these  cliffs  and  woods.  It  is  no 


50  A  WEEK 

feeble  imitation,  but  rather  its  original,  or  as  if  some 
rural  Orpheus  played  over  the  strain  again  to  show  how 
it  should  sound. 

Dong,  sounds  the  brass  in  the  east, 
As  if  to  a  funeral  feast, 
But  I  like  that  sound  the  best 
Out  of  the  fluttering  west. 

The  steeple  ringeth  a  knell, 
But  the  fairies'  silvery  bell 
Is  the  voice  of  that  gentle  folk, 
Or  else  the  horizon  that  spoke. 

Its  metal  is  not  of  brass, 
But  air,  and  water,  and  glass, 
And  under  a  cloud  it  is  swung, 
And  by  the  wind  it  is  rung. 

When  the  steeple  tolleth  the  noon, 

It  soundeth  not  so  soon, 

Yet  it  rings  a  far  earlier  hour, 

And  the  sun  has  not  reached  its  tower. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  road  runs  up  to  Carlisle,  city 
of  the  woods,  which,  if  it  is  less  civil,  is  the  more  natural. 
It  does  well  hold  the  earth  together.  It  gets  laughed  at 
because  it  is  a  small  town,  I  know,  but  nevertheless  it  is 
a  place  where  great  men  may  be  born  any  day,  for  fair 
winds  and  foul  blow  right  on  over  it  without  distinction. 
It  has  a  meeting-house  and  horse-sheds,  a  tavern  and  a 
blacksmith's  shop,  for  centre,  and  a  good  deal  of  wood 
to  cut  and  cord  yet.  And 

"Bedford,  most  noble  Bedford, 
I  shall  not  thee  forget." 

History  has  remembered  thee;  especially  that  meek  and 


SUNDAY  51 

humble  petition  of  thy  old  planters,  like  the  wailing  of  the 
Lord's  own  people,  "  To  the  gentlemen,  the  selectmen  " 
of  Concord,  praying  to  be  erected  into  a  separate  parish. 
We  can  hardly  credit  that  so  plaintive  a  psalm  resounded 
but  little  more  than  a  century  ago  along  these  Baby 
lonish  waters.  "  In  the  extreme  difficult  seasons  of  heat 
and  cold,"  said  they,  "  we  were  ready  to  say  of  the  Sab 
bath,  Behold  what  a  weariness  is  it."  "  Gentlemen,  if 
our  seeking  to  draw  off  proceed  from  any  disaffection 
to  our  present  Reverend  Pastor,  or  the  Christian  Society 
with  whom  we  have  taken  such  sweet  counsel  together, 
and  walked  unto  the  house  of  God  in  company,  then  hear 
us  not  this  day;  but  we  greatly  desire,  if  God  please, 
to  be  eased  of  our  burden  on  the  Sabbath,  the  travel  and 
fatigue  thereof,  that  the  word  of  God  may  be  nigh  to  us, 
near  to  our  houses  and  in  our  hearts,  that  we  and  our 
little  ones  may  serve  the  Lord.  We  hope  that  God,  who 
stirred  up  the  spirit  of  Cyrus  to  set  forward  temple  work, 
has  stirred  us  up  to  ask,  and  will  stir  you  up  to  grant,  the 
prayer  of  our  petition ;  so  shall  your  humble  petitioners 
ever  pray,  as  in  duty  bound "  —  And  so  the  temple 
work  went  forward  here  to  a  happy  conclusion.  Yonder 
in  Carlisle  the  building  of  the  temple  was  many  weari 
some  years  delayed,  not  that  there  was  wanting  of  Shit- 
tim  wood,  or  the  gold  of  Ophir,  but  a  site  therefor  con 
venient  to  all  the  worshipers;  whether  on  "Buttrick's 
Plain,"  or  rather  on  "Poplar  Hill."  It  was  a  tedious 
question. 

In  this  Billerica  solid  men  must  have  lived,  select  from 
year  to  year;  a  series  of  town  clerks,  at  least;  and  there 
are  old  records  that  you  may  search.  Some  spring  the 


52  A  WEEK 

white  man  came,  built  him  a  house,  and  made  a  clearing 
here,  letting  in  the  sun,  dried  up  a  farm,  piled  up  the  old 
gray  stones  in  fences,  cut  down  the  pines  around  his 
dwelling,  planted  orchard  seeds  brought  from  the  old 
country,  and  persuaded  the  civil  apple-tree  to  blossom 
next  to  the  wild  pine  and  the  juniper,  shedding  its  per 
fume  in  the  wilderness.  Their  old  stocks  still  remain. 
He  culled  the  graceful  elm  from  out  the  woods  and  from 
the  riverside,  and  so  refined  and  smoothed  his  village 
plot.  He  rudely  bridged  the  stream,  and  drove  his  team 
afield  into  the  river  meadows,  cut  the  wild  grass,  and  laid 
bare  the  homes  of  beaver,  otter,  muskrat,  and  with  the 
whetting  of  his  scythe  scared  off  the  deer  and  bear.  He 
set  up  a  mill,  and  fields  of  English  grain  sprang  in  the 
virgin  soil.  And  with  his  grain  he  scattered  the  seeds  of 
the  dandelion  and  the  wild  trefoil  over  the  meadows, 
mingling  his  English  flowers  with  the  wild  native  ones. 
The  bristling  burdock,  the  sweet-scented  catnip,  and  the 
humble  yarrow  planted  themselves  along  his  woodland 
road,  they,  too,  seeking  "freedom  to  worship  God"  in 
their  way.  And  thus  he  plants  a  town.  The  white  man's 
mullein  soon  reigned  in  Indian  corn-fields,  and  sweet- 
scented  English  grasses  clothed  the  new  soil.  Where, 
then,  could  the  red  man  set  his  foot  ?  The  honey-bee 
hummed  through  the  Massachusetts  woods,  and  sipped 
the  wild-flowers  round  the  Indian's  wigwam,  perchance 
unnoticed,  when,  with  prophetic  warning,  it  stung  the 
red  child's  hand,  forerunner  of  that  industrious  tribe 
that  was  to  come  and  pluck  the  wild-flower  of  his  race 
up  by  the  root. 

The  white  man  comes,  pale  as  the  dawn,  with  a  load 


SUNDAY  53 

of  thought,  with  a  slumbering  intelligence  as  a  fire  raked 
up,  knowing  well  what  he  knows,  not  guessing  but  cal 
culating;  strong  in  community,  yielding  obedience  to 
authority;  of  experienced  race;  of  wonderful,  wonder 
ful  common  sense;  dull  but  capable,  slow  but  persever 
ing,  severe  but  just,  of  little  humor  but  genuine ;  a  labor 
ing  man,  despising  game  and  sport;  building  a  house 
that  endures,  a  framed  house.  He  buys  the  Indian's 
moccasins  and  baskets,  then  buys  his  hunting-grounds, 
and  at  length  forgets  where  he  is  buried  and  plows  up 
his  bones.  And  here  town  records,  old,  tattered,  time- 
worn,  weather-stained  chronicles,  contain  the  Indian 
sachem's  mark  perchance,  an  arrow  or  a  beaver,  and  the 
few  fatal  words  by  which  he  deeded  his  hunting-grounds 
away.  He  comes  with  a  list  of  ancient  Saxon,  Norman, 
and  Celtic  names,  and  strews  them  up  and  down  this 
river,  —  Framingham,  Sudbury,  Bedford,  Carlisle,  Bil- 
lerica,  Chelmsford,  —  and  this  is  New  Angle-land,  and 
these  are  the  New  West  Saxons,  whom  the  red  men 
call,  not  Angle-ish  or  English,  but  Yengeese,  and  so  at 
last  they  are  known  for  Yankees. 

When  we  were  opposite  to  the  middle  of  Billerica,  the 
fields  on  either  hand  had  a  soft  and  cultivated  English 
aspect,  the  village  spire  being  seen  over  the  copses  which 
skirt  the  river,  and  sometimes  an  orchard  straggled 
down  to  the  water-side,  though,  generally,  our  course 
this  forenoon  was  the  wildest  part  of  our  voyage.  It 
seemed  that  men  led  a  quiet  and  very  civil  life  there. 
The  inhabitants  were  plainly  cultivators  of  the  earth, 
and  lived  under  an  organized  political  government. 
The  schoolhouse  stood  with  a  meek  aspect,  entreating  a 


54  A  WEEK 

long  truce  to  war  and  savage  life.  Every  one  finds  by 
his  own  experience,  as  well  as  in  history,  that  the  era  in 
which  men  cultivate  the  apple,  and  the  amenities  of  the 
garden,  is  essentially  different  from  that  of  the  hunter 
and  forest  life,  and  neither  can  displace  the  other  without 
loss.  We  have  all  had  our  day-dreams,  as  well  as  more 
prophetic  nocturnal  vision;  but  as  for  farming,  I  am 
convinced  that  my  genius  dates  from  an  older  era  than 
the  agricultural.  I  would  at  least  strike  my  spade  into 
the  earth  with  such  careless  freedom  but  accuracy  as  the 
woodpecker  his  bill  into  a  tree.  There  is  in  my  nature, 
x  methinks,  a  singular  yearning  toward  all  wildness.  I 
know  of  no  redeeming  qualities  in  myself  but  a  sincere 
love  for  some  things,  and  when  I  am  reproved  I  fall  back 
on  to  this  ground.  What  have  I  to  do  with  plows  ?  I 
cut  another  furrow  than  you  see.  Where  the  off  ox 
treads,  there  is  it  not,  it  is  farther  off;  where  the  nigh  ox 
walks,  it  will  not  be,  it  is  nigher  still.  If  corn  fails,  my 
crop  fails  not,  and  what  are  drought  and  rain  to  me? 
The  rude  Saxon  pioneer  will  sometimes  pine  for  that 
refinement  and  artificial  beauty  which  are  English,  and 
love  to  hear  the  sound  of  such  sweet  and  classical  names 
as  the  Pentland  and  Malvern  Hills,  the  Cliffs  of  Dover 
and  the  Trosachs,  Richmond,  Derwent,  and  Winander- 
mere,  which  are  to  him  now  instead  of  the  Acropolis  and 
Parthenon,  of  Baiae,  and  Athens,  with  its  sea-walls,  and 
Arcadia  and  Tempe. 

Greece,  who  am  I  that  should  remember  thee, 

Thy  Marathon  and  thy  Thermopylae  ? 

Is  my  life  vulgar,  my  fate  mean, 

Which  on  these  golden  memories  can  lean  ? 


SUNDAY  55 

We  are  apt  enough  to  be  pleased  with  such  books  as 
Evelyn's  Sylva,  Actearium,  and  Kalendarium  Hortense, 
but  they  imply  a  relaxed  nerve  in  the  reader.  Gardening 
is  civil  and  social,  but  it  wants  the  vigor  and  freedom  of  *" 
the  forest  and  the  outlaw.  There  may  be  an  excess  of 
cultivation  as  well  as  of  anything  else,  until  civilization 
becomes  pathetic.  A  highly  cultivated  man,  —  all  whose  )K 
bones  can  be  bent!  whose  heaven-born  virtues  are  but 
good  manners!  The  young  pines  springing  up  in  thev 
corn-fields  from  year  to  year  are  to  me  a  refreshing  fact. 
We  talk  of  civilizing  the  Indian,  but  that  is  not  the  name  * 
for  his  improvement.  By  the  wary  independence  and 
aloofness  of  his  dim  forest  life  he  preserves  his  inter 
course  with  his  native  gods,  and  is  admitted  from  time  ^ 
to  time  to  a  rare  and  peculiar  society  with  Nature.  He 
has  glances  of  starry  recognition  to  which  our  saloons 
are  strangers.  The  steady  illumination  of  his  genius, 
dim  only  because  distant,  is  like  the  faint  but  satisfying 
light  of  the  stars  compared  with  the  dazzling  but  inef 
fectual  and  short-lived  blaze  of  candles.  The  Society- 
Islanders  had  their  day-born  gods,  but  they  were  not 
supposed  to  be  "  of  equal  antiquity  with  the  atua  fauau 
po,  or  night-born  gods."  It  is  true,  there  are  the  innocent 
pleasures  of  country  life,  and  it  is  sometimes  pleasant  to 
make  the  earth  yield  her  increase,  and  gather  the  fruits 
in  their  season;  but  the  heroic  spirit  will  not  fail  to 
dream  of  remoter  retirements  and  more  rugged  paths. 
It  will  have  its  garden-plots  and  its  parterres  elsewhere 
than  on  the  earth,  and  gather  nuts  and  berries  by  the 
way  for  its  subsistence,  or  orchard  fruits  with  such 
heedlessness  as  berries.  We  would  not  always  be  sooth- 


56  A  WEEK 

ing  and  taming  nature,  breaking  the  horse  and  the  ox, 
but  sometimes  ride  the  horse  wild  and  chase  the  buffalo. 
The  Indian's  intercourse  with  Nature  is  at  least  such  as 
admits  of  the  greatest  independence  of  each.  If  he  is 
somewhat  of  a  stranger  in  her  midst,  the  gardener  is  too 
much  of  a  familiar.  There  is  something  vulgar  and  foul 
in  the  latter's  closeness  to  his  mistress,  something  noble 
and  cleanly  in  the  former's  distance.  In  civilization,  as 
in  a  southern  latitude,  man  degenerates  at  length,  and 
yields  to  the  incursion  of  more  northern  tribes,  — 

"  Some  nation  yet  shut  in 
With  hills  of  ice." 

There  are  other,  savager  and  more  primeval  aspects  of 
nature  than  our  poets  have  sung.  It  is  only  white  man's 
poetry.  Homer  and  Ossian  even  can  never  revive  in 
London  or  Boston.  And  yet,  behold  how  these  cities  are 
refreshed  by  the  mere  tradition,  or  the  imperfectly  trans 
mitted  fragrance  and  flavor  of  these  wild  fruits.  If  we 
could  listen  but  for  an  instant  to  the  chant  of  the  Indian 
muse,  we  should  understand  why  he  will  not  exchange 
his  savageness  for  civilization.  Nations  are  not  whim 
sical.  Steel  and  blankets  are  strong  temptations;  but  the 
Indian  does  well  to  continue  Indian. 

After  sitting  in  my  chamber  many  days,  reading  the 
poets,  I  have  been  out  early  on  a  foggy  morning  and 
heard  the  cry  of  an  owl  in  a  neighboring  wood  as  from 
a  nature  behind  the  common,  unexplored  by  science  or 
by  literature.  None  of  the  feathered  race  has  yet  realized 
my  youthful  conceptions  of  the  woodland  depths.  I  had 
seen  the  red  Election-birds  brought  from  their  recesses 
on  my  comrades'  string,  and  fancied  that  their  plumage 


SUNDAY  57 

would  assume  stranger  and  more  dazzling  colors,  like 
the  tints  of  evening,  in  proportion  as  I  advanced  farther 
into  the  darkness  and  solitude  of  the  forest.  Still  less 
have  I  seen  such  strong  and  wilderness  tints  on  any 
poet's  string. 

These  modern  ingenious  sciences  and  arts  do  not 
affect  me  as  those  more  venerable  arts  of  hunting  and 
fishing,  and  even  of  husbandry  in  its  primitive  and  sim 
ple  form;  as  ancient  and  honorable  trades  as  the  sun 
and  moon  and  winds  pursue,  coeval  with  the  faculties  of 
man,  and  invented  when  these  were  invented.  We  do 
not  know  their  John  Gutenberg,  or  Richard  Arkwright, 
though  the  poets  would  fain  make  them  to  have  been 
gradually  learned  and  taught.  According  to  Gower,  — 

"  And  ladahel,  as  saith  the  boke, 
Firste  made  nette,  fishes  toke. 
Of  huntyng  eke  he  fond  the  chace, 
Whiche  nowe  is  knowe  in  many  place ; 
A  tent  of  clothe,  with  corde  and  stake, 
He  sette  up  first,  and  did  it  make." 

Also,  Lydgate  says :  — 

"Jason  first  sayled,  in  story  it  is  tolde, 
Toward  Colchos,  to  wynne  the  flees  of  golde, 
Ceres  the  Goddess  fond  first  the  tilthe  of  londe ; 

Also,  Aristeus  fonde  first  the  usage 

Of  mylke,  and  cruddis,  and  of  honey  swote  ; 

Peryodes,  for  grete  avauntage, 

From  flyntes  smote  fuyre,  daryng  in  the  roote." 

We  read  that  Aristeus  "obtained  of  Jupiter  and 
Neptune,  that  the  pestilential  heat  of  the  dog-days, 
wherein  was  great  mortality,  should  be  mitigated  with 


58  A  WEEK 

wind."  This  is  one  of  those  dateless  benefits  conferred 
on  man  which  have  no  record  in  our  vulgar  day,  though 
we  still  find  some  similitude  to  them  in  our  dreams,  in 
which  we  have  a  more  liberal  and  juster  apprehension 
of  things,  unconstrained  by  habit,  which  is  then  in  some 
measure  put  off,  and  divested  of  memory,  which  we  call 
history. 

According  to  fable,  when  the  island  of  ^Egina  was 
depopulated  by  sickness,  at  the  instance  of  ^Eacus,  Ju 
piter  turned  the  ants  into  men,  that  is,  as  some  think, 
he  made  men  of  the  inhabitants  who  lived  meanly  like 
ants.  This  is  perhaps  the  fullest  history  of  those  early 
days  extant. 

The  fable,  which  is  naturally  and  truly  composed,  so 
as  to  satisfy  the  imagination,  ere  it  addresses  the  under 
standing,  beautiful  though  strange  as  a  wild-flower,  is  to 
the  wise  man  an  apothegm,  and  admits  of  his  most  gen 
erous  interpretation.  When  we  read  that  Bacchus  made 
the  Tyrrhenian  mariners  mad,  so  that  they  leaped  into 
the  sea,  mistaking  it  for  a  meadow  full  of  flowers,  and 
so  became  dolphins,  we  are  not  concerned  about  the  his 
torical  truth  of  this,  but  rather  a  higher  poetical  truth. 
We  seem  to  hear  the  music  of  a  thought,  and  care  not 
if  the  understanding  be  not  gratified.  For  their  beauty, 
consider  the  fables  of  Narcissus,  of  Endymion,  of  Mem- 
non  son  of  Morning,  the  representative  of  all  promising 
youths  who  have  died  a  premature  death,  and  whose 
memory  is  melodiously  prolonged  to  the  latest  morning ; 
the  beautiful  stories  of  Phaethon,  and  of  the  Sirens  whose 
isle  shone  afar  off  white  with  the  bones  of  unburied  men ; 


SUNDAY  59 

and  the  pregnant  ones  of  Pan,  Prometheus,  and  the 
Sphinx;  and  that  long  list  of  names  which  have  already 
become  part  of  the  universal  language  of  civilized  men, 
and  from  proper  are  becoming  common  names  or  nouns, 
—  the  Sibyls,  the  Eumenides,  the  Parcse,  the  Graces, 
the  Muses,  Nemesis,  etc. 

It  is  interesting  to  observe  with  what  singular  unanim 
ity  the  farthest  sundered  nations  and  generations  consent 
to  give  completeness  and  roundness  to  an  ancient  fable, 
of  which  they  indistinctly  appreciate  the  beauty  or  the 
truth.  By  a  faint  and  dream-like  effort,  though  it  be 
only  by  the  vote  of  a  scientific  body,  the.  dullest  posterity 
slowly  add  some  trait  to  the  mythus.  As  when  astron 
omers  call  the  lately  discovered  planet  Neptune;  or  the 
asteroid  Astrsea,  that  the  Virgin  who  was  driven  from 
earth  to  heaven  at  the  end  of  the  golden  age  may  have 
her  local  habitation  in  the  heavens  more  distinctly 
assigned  her,  —  for  the  slightest  recognition  of  poetic 
worth  is  significant.  By  such  slow  aggregation  has 
mythology  grown  from  the  first.  The  very  nursery  tales 
of  this  generation  were  the  nursery  tales  of  primeval 
races.  They  migrate  from  east  to  west,  and  again  fromN 
west  to  east;  now  expanded  into  the  "tale  divine"  of 
bards,  now  shrunk  into  a  popular  rhyme.  This  is  an 
approach  to  that  universal  language  which  men  have 
sought  in  vain.  This  fond  reiteration  of  the  oldest  ex 
pressions  of  truth  by  the  latest  posterity,  content  with 
slightly  and  religiously  retouching  the  old  material,  is  the 
most  impressive  proof  of  a  common  humanity. 

All  nations  love  the  same  jests  and  tales,  Jews,  Chris 
tians,  and  Mahometans,  and  the  same  translated  suffice 


60  A   WEEK 

for  all.  All  men  are  children,  and  of  one  family.  The 
same  tale  sends  them  all  to  bed,  and  wakes  them  in 
the  morning.  Joseph  Wolff,  the  missionary,  distributed 
copies  of  Robinson  Crusoe,  translated  into  Arabic,  among 
the  Arabs,  and  they  made  a  great  sensation.  "  Robinson 
Crusoe's  adventures  and  wisdom,"  says  he,  "  were  read 
by  Mahometans  in  the  market-places  of  Sanaa,  Hody- 
eda,  and  Loheya,  and  admired  and  believed!"  On 
reading  the  book,  the  Arabians  exclaimed,  "Oh,  that 
Robinson  Crusoe  must  have  been  a  great  prophet ! " 

To  some  extent,  mythology  is  only  the  most  ancient 
history  and  biography.  So  far  from  being  false  or  fabu 
lous  in  the  common  sense,  it  contains  only  enduring  and 
essential  truth,  the  I  and  you,  the  here  and  there,  the 
now  and  then,  being  omitted.  Either  time  or  rare  wis 
dom  writes  it.  Before  printing  was  discovered,  a  century 
was  equal  to  a  thousand  years.  The  poet  is  he  who  can 
write  some  pure  mythology  to-day  without  the  aid  of 
posterity.  In  how  few  words,  for  instance,  the  Greeks 
would  have  told  the  story  of  Abelard  and  Heloise,  mak 
ing  but  a  sentence  for  our  classical  dictionary,  —  and 
then,  perchance,  have  stuck  up  their  names  to  shine  in 
some  corner  of  the  firmament.  We  moderns,  on  the 
other  hand,  collect  only  the  raw  materials  of  biography 
and  history,  "memoirs  to  serve  for  a  history,"  which 
itself  is  but  materials  to  serve  for  a  mythology.  How 
many  volumes  folio  would  the  Life  and  Labors  of  Pro 
metheus  have  filled,  if  perchance  it  had  fallen,  as  per 
chance  it  did  first,  in  days  of  cheap  printing!  Who 
knows  what  shape  the  fable  of  Columbus  will  at  length 
assume,  to  be  confounded  with  that  of  Jason  and  the 


SUNDAY  61 

expedition  of  .the  Argonauts.  And  Franklin,  —  there 
may  be  a  line  for  him  in  the  future  classical  dictionary, 
recording  what  that  demigod  did,  and  referring  him  to 

some  new  genealogy.   "  Son  of and .  He  aided 

the  Americans  to  gain  their  independence,  instructed 
mankind  in  economy,  and  drew  down  lightning  from  the 
clouds." 

The  hidden  significance  of  these  fables  which  is  some 
times  thought  to  have  been  detected,  the  ethics  running 
parallel  to  the  poetry  and  history,  are  not  so  remarkable 
as  the  readiness  with  which  they  may  be  made  to  express 
a  variety  of  truths.  As  if  they  were  the  skeletons  of  still 
older  and  more  universal  truths  than  any  whose  flesh 
and  blood  they  are  for  the  time  made  to  wear.  It  is  like 
striving  to  make  the  sun,  or  the  wind,  or  the  sea  symbols 
to  signify  exclusively  the  particular  thoughts  of  our  day. 
But  what  signifies  it  ?  In  the  mythus  a  superhuman  in 
telligence  uses  the  unconscious  thoughts  and  dreams  of 
men  as  its  hieroglyphics  to  address  men  unborn.  In  the 
history  of  the  human  mind,  these  glowing  and  ruddy 
fables  precede  the  noonday  thoughts  of  men,  as  Aurora 
the  sun's  rays.  The  matutine  intellect  of  the  poet,  keep 
ing  in  advance  of  the  glare  of  philosophy,  always  dwells 
in  this  auroral  atmosphere. 

\ 

As  we  said  before,  the  Concord  is  a  dead  stream,  but 
its  scenery  is  the  more  suggestive  to  the  contemplative 
voyager,  and  this  day  its  water  was  fuller  of  reflections 
than  our  pages  even.  Just  before  it  reaches  the  falls  in 
Billerica,  it  is  contracted,  and  becomes  swifter  and  shal 
lower,  with  a  yellow  pebbly  bottom,  hardly  passable  for  a 


62  A  WEEK 

canal-boat,  leaving  the  broader  and  more  stagnant  por 
tion  above  like  a  lake  among  the  hills.  All  through  the 
Concord,  Bedford,  and  Billerica  meadows  we  had  heard 
no  murmur  from  its  stream,  except  where  some  tributary 
runnel  tumbled  in,  — 

Some  tumultuous  little  rill, 

Purling  round  its  storied  pebble, 
Tinkling  to  the  selfsame  tune, 
From  September  until  June, 

Which  no  drought  doth  e'er  enfeeble. 

Silent  flows  the  parent  stream, 

And  if  rocks  do  lie  below, 
Smothers  with  her  waves  the  din, 
As  it  were  a  youthful  sin, 

Just  as  still,  and  just  as  slow. 

But  now  at  length  we  heard  this  staid  and  primitive 
river  rushing  to  her  fall,  like  any  rill.  We  here  left  its 
channel,  just  above  the  Billerica  Falls,  and  entered  the 
canal,  which  runs,  or  rather  is  conducted,  six  miles 
through  the  woods  to  the  Merrimack,  at  Middlesex;  and 
as  we  did  not  care  to  loiter  in  this  part  of  our  voyage, 
while  one  ran  along  the  tow-path  drawing  the  boat  by  a 
cord,  the  other  kept  it  off  the  shore  with  a  pole,  so  that 
we  accomplished  the  whole  distance  in  little  more  than 
an  hour.  This  canal,  which  is  the  oldest  in  the  country, 
and  has  even  an  antique  look  beside  the  more  modern 
railroads,  is  fed  by  the  Concord,  so  that  we  were  still 
floating  on  its  familiar  waters.  It  is  so  much  water  which 
the  river  lets  for  the  advantage  of  commerce.  There 
\  appeared  some  want  of  harmony  in  its  scenery,  since  it 
was  not  of  equal  date  with  the  woods  and  meadows 
through  which  it  is  led,  and  we  missed  the  conciliatory 


SUNDAY  63 

influence  of  time  on  land  and  water;  but  in  the  lapse 
of  ages,  Nature  will  recover  and  indemnify  herself,  and 
gradually  plant  fit  shrubs  and  flowers  along  its  borders. 
Already  the  kingfisher  sat  upon  a  pine  over  the  water, 
and  the  bream  and  pickerel  swam  below.  Thus  all  works 
pass  directly  out  of  the  hands  of  the  architect  into  the 
hands  of  Nature,  to  be  perfected. 

It  was  a  retired  and  pleasant  route,  without  houses 
or  travelers,  except  some  young  men  who  were  lounging 
upon  a  bridge  in  Chelmsford,  who  leaned  impudently 
over  the  rails  to  pry  into  our  concerns,  but  we  caught  the 
eye  of  the  most  forward,  and  looked  at  him  till  he  was 
visibly  discomfited.  Not  that  there  was  any  peculiar 
efficacy  in  our  look,  but  rather  a  sense  of  shame  left  in 
him  which  disarmed  him. 

It  is  a  very  true  and  expressive  phrase,  "He  looked 
daggers  at  me,"  for  the  first  pattern  and  prototype  of  all 
daggers  must  have  been  a  glance  of  the  eye.  First,  there 
was  the  glance  of  Jove's  eye,  then  his  fiery  bolt;  then, 
the  material  gradually  hardening,  tridents,  spears, 
javelins;  and  finally,  for  the  convenience  of  private 
men,  daggers,  krisses,  and  so  forth,  were  invented.  It  is 
wonderful  how  we  get  about  the  streets  without  being 
wounded  by  these  delicate  and  glancing  weapons,  a  man 
can  so  nimbly  whip  out  his  rapier,  or  without  being 
noticed  carry  it  unsheathed.  Yet  it  is  rare  that  one  gets 
seriously  looked  at. 

As  we  passed  under  the  last  bridge  over  the  canal, 
just  before  reaching  the  Merrimack,  the  people  coming 
out  of  church  paused  to  look  at  us  from  above,  and 
apparently,  so  strong  is  custom,  indulged  in  some 


64  A  WEEK 

heathenish  comparisons;  but  we  were  the  truest  ob 
servers  of  this  sunny  day.  According  to  Hesiod,  — 

"The  seventh  is  a  holy  day, 
For  then  Latona  brought  forth  golden-rayed  Apollo," 

and  by  our  reckoning  this  was  the  seventh  day  of  the 
week,  and  not  the  first.  I  find  among  the  papers  of  an 
old  Justice  of  the  Peace  and  Deacon  of  the  town  of 
Concord,  this  singular  memorandum,  which  is  worth 
preserving  as  a  relic  of  an  ancient  custom.  After  reform 
ing  the  spelling  and  grammar,  it  runs  as  follows :  "  Men 
that  traveled  with  teams  on  the  Sabbath,  December  18, 
1803,  were  Jeremiah  Richardson  and  Jonas  Parker, 
both  of  Shirley.  They  had  teams  with  rigging  such  as  is 
used  to  carry  barrels,  and  they  were  traveling  westward. 
Richardson  was  questioned  by  the  Hon.  Ephraim  Wood, 
Esq.,  and  he  said  that  Jonas  Parker  was  his  fellow- 
traveler,  and  he  further  said  that  a  Mr.  Longley  was  his 
employer,  who  promised  to  bear  him  out."  We  were  the 
men  that  were  gliding  northward,  this  September  1, 
1839,  with  still  team,  and  rigging  not  the  most  conven 
ient  to  carry  barrels,  unquestioned  by  any  squire  or 
church  deacon,  and  ready  to  bear  ourselves  out  if  need 
were.  In  the  latter  part  of  the  seventeenth  century, 
according  to  the  historian  of  Dunstable,  "  Towns  were 
directed  to  erect  'a  cage9  near  the  meeting-house,  and 
in  this  all  offenders  against  the  sanctity  of  the  Sabbath 
were  confined."  Society  has  relaxed  a  little  from  its 
strictness,  one  would  say,  but  I  presume  that  there  is 
not  less  religion  than  formerly.  If  the  ligature  is  found 
to  be  loosened  in  one  part,  it  is  only  drawn  the  tighter  in 
another. 


SUNDAY  65 

You  can  hardly  convince  a  man  of  an  error  in  a  life 
time,  but  must  content  yourself  with  the  reflection  that 
the  progress  of  science  is  slow.  If  he  is  not  convinced, 
his  grandchildren  may  be.  The  geologists  tell  us  that  it 
took  one  hundred  years  to  prove  that  fossils  are  organic, 
and  one  hundred  and  fifty  more  to  prove  that  they  are 
not  to  be  referred  to  the  Noachian  deluge.  I  am  not  sure 
but  I  should  betake  myself  in  extremities  to  the  liberal 
divinities  of  Greece,  rather  than  to  my  country's  God. 
Jehovah,  though  with  us  he  has  acquired  new  attributes, 
is  more  absolute  and  unapproachable,  but  hardly  more 
divine,  than  Jove.  He  is  not  so  much  of  a  gentleman,  not 
so  gracious  and  catholic,  he  does  not  exert  so  intimate 
and  genial  an  influence  on  nature,  as  many  a  god  of  the 
Greeks.  I  should  fear  the  infinite  power  and  inflexible 
justice  of  the  almighty  mortal  hardly  as  yet  apotheosized, 
so  wholly  masculine,  with  no  sister  Juno,  no  Apollo,  no 
Venus,  nor  Minerva,  to  intercede  for  me,  OvfjuS  <£iAe'ov<ra 
re,  KrjSofjicvri  TC.  The  Grecian  are  youthful  and  erring 
and  fallen  gods,  with  the  vices  of  men,  but  in  many 
important  respects  essentially  of  the  divine  race.  In  my 
Pantheon,  Pan  still  reigns  in  his  pristine  glory,  with  his 
ruddy  face,  his  flowing  beard,  and  his  shaggy  body,  his 
pipe  and  his  crook,  his  nymph  Echo,  and  his  chosen 
daughter  lambe;  for  the  great  god  Pan  is  not  dead,  as 
was  rumored.  No  god  ever  dies.  Perhaps  of  all  the  gods 
of  New  England  and  of  ancient  Greece,  I  am  most  con 
stant  at  his  shrine. 

It  seems  to  me  that  the  god  that  is  commonly  wor 
shiped  in  civilized  countries  is  not  at  all  divine,  though 
he  bears  a  divine  name,  but  is  the  overwhelming  author- 


66  A  WEEK 

ity  and  respectability  of  mankind  combined.  Men 
reverence  one  another,  not  yet  God.  If  I  thought  that  I 
could  speak  with  discrimination  and  impartiality  of  the 
nations  of  Christendom,  I  should  praise  them,  but  it 
tasks  me  too  much.  They  seem  to  be  the  most  civil  and 
humane,  but  I  may  be  mistaken.  Every  people  have 
gods  to  suit  their  circumstances;  the  Society  Islanders 
had  a  god  called  Toahitu,  "  in  shape  like  a  dog;  he  saved 
such  as  were  in  danger  of  falling  from  rocks  and  trees." 
I  think  that  we  can  do  without  him,  as  we  have  not  much 
climbing  to  do.  Among  them  a  man  could  make  himself 
a  god  out  of  a  piece  of  wood  in  a  few  minutes,  which 
would  frighten  him  out  of  his  wits. 

I  fancy  that  some  indefatigable  spinster  of  the  old 
school,  who  had  the  supreme  felicity  to  be  born  in  "  days 
that  tried  men's  souls,"  hearing  this,  may  say  with 
Nestor,  another  of  the  old  school,  "  But  you  are  younger 
than  I.  For  time  was  when  I  conversed  with  greater  men 
than  you.  For  not  at  any  time  have  I  seen  such  men, 
nor  shall  see  them,  as  Perithous,  and  Dryas,  and  7roi/*«/a 
Aawv,"  that  is  probably  Washington,  sole  "  Shepherd  of 
the  People."  And  when  Apollo  has  now  six  times  rolled 
westward,  or  seemed  to  roll,  and  now  for  the  seventh 
time  shows  his  face  in  the  east,  eyes  wellnigh  glazed,  long 
glassed,  which  have  fluctuated  only  between  lamb's  wool 
and  worsted,  explore  ceaselessly  some  good  sermon 
book.  For  six  days  shalt  thou  labor  and  do  all  thy  knit 
ting,  but  on  the  seventh,  forsooth,  thy  reading.  Happy 
we  who  can  bask  in  this  warm  September  sun,  which 
illumines  all  creatures,  as  well  when  they  rest  as  when 
they  toil,  not  without  a  feeling  of  gratitude;  whose  life  is 


SUNDAY  67 

as  blameless,  how  blameworthy  soever  it  may  be,  on  the 
Lord's  Mona-day  as  on  his  Suna-day. 

There  are  various,  nay,  incredible  faiths ;  why  should 
we  be  alarmed  at  any  of  them  ?  What  man  believes,  God 
believes.  Long  as  I  have  lived,  and  many  blasphemers^ 
as  I  have  heard  and  seen,  I  have  never  yet  heard  or  wit 
nessed  any  direct  and  conscious  blasphemy  or  irrever 
ence;  but  of  indirect  and  habitual,  enough.  Where  is 
the  man  who  is  guilty  of  direct  and  personal  insolence^ 
to  Him  that  made  him  ? 

One  memorable  addition  to  the  old  mythology  is  due 
to  this  era,  —  the  Christian  fable.  With  what  pains,  and 
tears,  and  blood  these  centuries  have  woven  this  and 
added  it  to  the  mythology  of  mankind!  The  new  Pro 
metheus.  With  what  miraculous  consent,  and  patience, 
and  persistency  has  this  mythus  been  stamped  on  the 
memory  of  the  race !  It  would  seem  as  if  it  were  in  the 
progress  of  our  mythology  to  dethrone  Jehovah,  and 
crown  Christ  in  his  stead. 

If  it  is  not  a  tragical  life  we  live,  then  I  know  not  what 
to  call  it.  Such  a  story  as  that  of  Jesus  Christ,  —  the 
history  of  Jerusalem,  say,  being  a  part  of  the  Universal 
History.  The  naked,  the  embalmed,  unburied  death  of 
Jerusalem  amid  its  desolate  hills,  —  think  of  it.  In 
Tasso's  poem  I  trust  some  things  are  sweetly  buried. 
Consider  the  snappish  tenacity  with  which  they  preach 
Christianity  still.  What  are  time  and  space  to  Chris 
tianity,  eighteen  hundred  years,  and  a  new  world?  — 
that  the  humble  life  of  a  Jewish  peasant  should  have 
force  to  make  a  New  York  bishop  so  bigoted.  Forty-four 
lamps,  the  gift  of  kings,  now  burning  in  a  place  called 


68  A  WEEK 

the  Holy  Sepulchre;  a  church-bell  ringing;  some  unaf 
fected  tears  shed  by  a  pilgrim  on  Mount  Calvary  within 
the  week. 

"  Jerusalem,  Jerusalem,  when  I  forget  thee,  may  my 
right  hand  forget  her  cunning." 

"By  the  waters  of  Babylon  there  we  sat  down,  and 
we  wept  when  we  remembered  Zion." 
'  I  trust  that  some  may  be  as  near  and  dear  to  Buddha, 
or  Christ,  or  Swedenborg,  who  are  without  the  pale  of 
their  churches.  It  is  necessary  not  to  be  Christian  to 
appreciate  the  beauty  and  significance  of  the  life  of 
Christ.  I  know  that  some  will  have  hard  thoughts  of  me, 
when  they  hear  their  Christ  named  beside  my  Buddha, 
yet  I  am  sure  that  I  am  willing  they  should  love  their 
Christ  more  than  my  Buddha,  for  the  love  is  the  main 
thing,  and  I  like  him  too.  "  God  is  the  letter  Ku,  as  well 
as  Khu."  Why  need  Christians  be  still  intolerant  and 
superstitious  ?  The  simple-minded  sailors  were  unwilling 
to  cast  overboard  Jonah  at  his  own  request. 

"Where  is  this  love  become  in  later  age? 
Alas!  't  is  gone  in  endless  pilgrimage 
From  hence,  and  never  to  return,  I  doubt, 
Till  revolution  wheel  those  times  about." 

One  man  says,  — 

"The  worlde  's  a  popular  disease,  that  reigns 
Within  the  f roward  heart  and  frantic  brains 
Of  poor  distempered  mortals." 

Another,  that 

"all  the  world  's  a  stage, 
And  all  the  men  and  women  merely  players." 

The  world  is  a  strange  place  for  a  playhouse  to  stand 


SUNDAY  69 

within  it.  Old  Drayton  thought  that  a  man  that  lived 
here,  and  would  be  a  poet,  for  instance,  should  have  in 
him  certain  "brave,  translunary  things,"  and  a  "fine 
madness"  should  possess  his  brain.  Certainly  it  were 
as  well,  that  he  might  be  up  to  the  occasion.  That  is  a 
superfluous  wonder,  which  Dr.  Johnson  expresses  at  the 
assertion  of  Sir  Thomas  Browne  that  "  his  life  has  been 
a  miracle  of  thirty  years,  which  to  relate  were  not  history 
but  a  piece  of  poetry,  and  would  sound  like  a  fable." 
The  wonder  is,  rather,  that  all  men  do  not  assert  as 
much.  That  would  be  a  rare  praise,  if  it  were  true, 
which  was  addressed  to  Francis  Beaumont,  —  "  Spec 
tators  sate  part  in  your  tragedies." 

Think  what  a  mean  and  wretched  place  this  world  is ; 
that  half  the  time  we  have  to  light  a  lamp  that  we  may 
see  to  live  in  it.  This  is  half  our  life.  Who  would  under 
take  the  enterprise  if  it  were  all  ?  And,  pray,  what  more 
has  day  to  offer  ?  A  lamp  that  burns  more  clear,  a  purer 
oil,  say  winter-strained,  that  so  we  may  pursue  our  idle 
ness  with  less  obstruction.  Bribed  with  a  little  sunlight 
and  a  few  prismatic  tints,  we  bless  our  Maker,  and  stave 
off  his  wrath  with  hymns. 

I  make  ye  an  offer, 

Ye  gods,  hear  the  scoffer, 

The  scheme  will  not  hurt  you, 

If  ye  will  find  goodness,  I  will  find  virtue. 

Though  I  am  your  creature, 

And  child  of  your  nature, 

I  have  pride  still  unbended, 

And  blood  undescended, 

Some  free  independence, 

And  my  own  descendants. 


70  A  WEEK 

I  cannot  toil  blindly, 
Though  ye  behave  kindly, 
And  I  swear  by  the  rood, 
I'll  be  slave  to  no  God. 
If  ye  will  deal  plainly, 
I  will  strive  mainly, 
If  ye  will  discover, 
Great  plans  to  your  lover, 
And  give  him  a  sphere 
Somewhat  larger  than  here. 

"  Verily,  my  angels !  I  was  abashed  on  account  of  my 
servant,  who  had  no  Providence  but  me;  therefore  did 
I  pardon  him."  * 

Most  people  with  whom  I  talk,  men  and  women  even 
of  some  originality  and  genius,  have  their  scheme  of  the 
universe  all  cut  and  dried,  —  very  dry,  I  assure  you,  to 
hear,  dry  enough  to  burn,  dry-rotted  and  powder-post, 
methinks,  —  which"  they  set  up  between  you  and  them 
in  the  shortest  intercourse;  an  ancient  and  tottering 
frame  with  all  its  boards  blown  off.  They  do  not  walk 
without  their  bed.  Some,  to  me,  seemingly  very  unim 
portant  and  unsubstantial  things  and  relations  are  for 
them  everlastingly  settled,  —  as  Father,  Son,  and  Holy 
Ghost,  and  the  like.  These  are  like  the  everlasting  hills 
to  them.  But  in  all  my  wanderings  I  never  came  across 
the  least  vestige  of  authority  for  these  things.  They  have 
not  left  so  distinct  a  trace  as  the  delicate  flower  of  a 
remote  geological  period  on  the  coal  in  my  grate.  The 
wisest  man  preaches  no  doctrines;  he  has  no  scheme; 
he  sees  no  rafter,  not  even  a  cobweb,  against  the  heavens. 
1  The  GuListan  of  Sadi. 


SUNDAY  71 

It  is  clear  sky.  If  I  ever  see  more  clearly  at  one  time  than 
at  another,  the  medium  through  which  I  see  is  clearer. 
To  see  from  earth  to  heaven,  and  see  there  standing, 
still  a  fixture,  that  old  Jewish  scheme !  What  right  have 
you  to  hold  up  this  obstacle  to  my  understanding  you, 
to  your  understanding  me!  You  did  not  invent  it;  it 
was  imposed  on  you.  Examine  your  authority.  Even 
Christ,  we  fear,  had  his  scheme,  his  conformity  to  tradi 
tion,  which  slightly  vitiates  his  teaching.  He  had  not 
swallowed  all  formulas.  He  preached  some  mere  doc 
trines.  As  for  me,  Abraham,  Isaac,  and  Jacob  are  now 
only  the  subtilest  imaginable  essences,  which  would  not 
stain  the  morning  sky.  Your  scheme  must  be  the  frame 
work  of  the  universe;  all  other  schemes  will  soon  be 
ruins.  The  perfect  God  in  his  revelations  of  himself  has 
never  got  to  the  length  of  one  such  proposition  as  you, 
his  prophets,  state.  Have  you  learned  the  alphabet  of 
heaven  and  can  count  three  ?  Do  you  know  the  number 
of  God's  family?  Can  you  put  mysteries  into  words? 
Do  you  presume  to  fable  of  the  ineffable  ?  Pray,  what 
geographer  are  you,  that  speak  of  heaven's  topography  ? 
Whose  friend  are  you,  that  speak  of  God's  personality  ? 
Do  you,  Miles  Howard,  think  that  he  has  made  you 
his  confidant  ?  Tell  me  of  the  height  of  the  mountains 
of  the  moon,  or  of  the  diameter  of  space,  and  I  may 
believe  you,  but  of  the  secret  history  of  the  Almighty, 
and  I  shall  pronounce  thee  mad.  Yet  we  have  a  sort  of 
family  history  of  our  God,  —  so  have  the  Tahitians  of 
theirs,  —  and  some  old  poet's  grand  imagination  is  im 
posed  on  us  as  adamantine  everlasting  truth,  and  God's 
own  word.  Pythagoras  says,  truly  enough,  "  A  true  as- 


72  A  WEEK 

sertion  respecting  God  is  an  assertion  of  God ; "  but  we 
may  well  doubt  if  there  is  any  example  of  this  in  liter 
ature. 

The  New  Testament  is  an  invaluable  book,  though 
I  confess  to  having  been  slightly  prejudiced  against  it  in 
my  very  early  days  by  the  church  and  the  Sabbath- 
school,  so  that  it  seemed,  before  I  read  it,  to  be  the  yel 
lowest  book  in  the  catalogue.  Yet  I  early  escaped  from 
their  meshes.  It  was  hard  to  get  the  commentaries  out 
of  one's  head  and  taste  its  true  flavor.  I  think  that  Pil 
grim's  Progress  is  the  best  sermon  which  has  been 
preached  from  this  text;  almost  all  other  sermons  that 
I  have  heard,  or  heard  of,  have  been  but  poor  imitations 
of  this.  It  would  be  a  poor  story  to  be  prejudiced  against 
the  Life  of  Christ  because  the  book  has  been  edited  by 
Christians.  In  fact,  I  love  this  book  rarely,  though  it  is 
a  sort  of  castle  in  the  air  to  me,  which  I  am  permitted  to 
dream.  Having  come  to  it  so  recently  and  freshly,  it  has 
the  greater  charm,  so  that  I  cannot  find  any  to  talk  with 
about  it.  I  never  read  a  novel,  they  have  so  little  real 
life  and  thought  in  them.  The  reading  which  I  love  best 
is  the  scriptures  of  the  several  nations,  though  it  happens 
that  I  am  better  acquainted  with  those  of  the  Hindoos, 
the  Chinese,  and  the  Persians,  than  of  the  Hebrews, 
which  I  have  come  to  last.  Give  me  one  of  these  bibles, 
and  you  have  silenced  me  for  a  while.  When  I  recover 
the  use  of  my  tongue,  I  am  wont  to  worry  my  neighbors 
with  the  new  sentences ;  but  commonly  they  cannot  see 
that  there  is  any  wit  in  them.  Such  has  been  my  experi 
ence  with  the  New  Testament.  I  have  not  yet  got  to  the 
crucifixion,  I  have  read  it  over  so  many  times.  I  should 


SUNDAY  73 

love  dearly  to  read  it  aloud  to  my  friends,  some  of  whom 
are  seriously  inclined ;  it  is  so  good,  and  I  am  sure  that 
they  have  never  heard  it,  it  fits  their  case  exactly,  and 
we  should  enjoy  it  so  much  together,  —  but  I  instinc 
tively  despair  of  getting  their  ears.  They  soon  show,  by 
signs  not  to  be  mistaken,  that  it  is  inexpressibly  weari 
some  to  them.  I  do  not  mean  to  imply  that  I  am  any 
better  than  my  neighbors ;  for,  alas !  I  know  that  I  am 
only  as  good,  though  I  love  better  books  than  they. 

It  is  remarkable  that,  notwithstanding  the  universal 
favor  with  which  the  New  Testament  is  outwardly 
received,  and  even  the  bigotry  with  which  it  is  defended, 
there  is  no  hospitality  shown  to,  there  is  no  appreciation 
of,  the  order  of  truth  with  which  it  deals.  I  know  of  no 
book  that  has  so  few  readers.  There  is  none  so  truly 
strange,  and  heretical,  and  unpopular.  To  Christians, 
no  less  than  Greeks  and  Jews,  it  is  foolishness  and  a 
stumbling-block.  There  are,  indeed,  severe  things  in  it 
which  no  man  should  read  aloud  more  than  once.  "  Seek 
first  the  kingdom  of  heaven."  "  Lay  not  up  for  your 
selves  treasures  on  earth."  "If  thou  wilt  be  perfect,  go 
and  sell  that  thou  hast,  and  give  to  the  poor,  and  thou 
shalt  have  treasure  in  heaven."  "For  what  is  a  man 
profited,  if  he  shall  gain  the  whole  world,  and  lose  his 
own  soul  ?  Or  what  shall  a  man  give  in  exchange  for  his 
soul  ? "  Think  of  this,  Yankees !  "  Verily,  I  say  unto  you, 
if  ye  have  faith  as  a  grain  of  mustard  seed,  ye  shall  say 
unto  this  mountain,  Remove  hence  to  yonder  place,  and 
it  shall  remove;  and  nothing  shall  be  impossible  unto 
you."  Think  of  repeating  these  things  to  a  New  Eng 
land  audience!  thirdly,  fourthly,  fifteenthly,  till  there 


74  A  WEEK 

are  three  barrels  of  sermons!  who,  without  cant,  can 
read  them  aloud  ?  Who,  without  cant,  can  hear  them, 
and  not  go  out  of  the  meeting-house  ?  They  never  were 
read,  they  never  were  heard.  Let  but  one  of  these  sen 
tences  be  rightly  read,  from  any  pulpit  in  the  land,  and 
there  would  not  be  left  one  stone  of  that  meeting-house 
upon  another. 

Yet  the  New  Testament  treats  of  man  and  man's 
so-called  spiritual  affairs  too  exclusively,  and  is  too 
constantly  moral  and  personal,  to  alone  content  me,  who 
am  not  interested  solely  in  man's  religious  or  moral 
nature,  or  in  man  even.  I  have  not  the  most  definite 
designs  on  the  future.  Absolutely  speaking,  Do  unto 
others  as  you  would  that  they  should  do  unto  you  is  by 
no  means  a  golden  rule,  but  the  best  of  current  silver. 
An  honest  man  would  have  but  little  occasion  for  it.  It 
is  golden  not  to  have  any  rule  at  all  in  such  a  case.  The 
book  has  never  been  written  which  is  to  be  accepted 
without  any  allowance.  Christ  was  a  sublime  actor  on 
the  stage  of  the  world.  He  knew  what  he  was  thinking 
of  when  he  said,  "Heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away, 
but  my  words  shall  not  pass  away."  I  draw  near  to  him 
at  such  a  time.  Yet  he  taught  mankind  but  imperfectly 
how  to  live ;  his  thoughts  were  all  directed  toward  another 
world.  There  is  another  kind  of  success  than  his.  Even 
here  we  have  a  sort  of  living  to  get,  and  must  buffet  it 
somewhat  longer.  There  are  various  tough  problems 
yet  to  solve,  and  we  must  make  shift  to  live,  betwixt 
spirit  and  matter,  such  a  human  life  as  we  can. 

A  healthy  man,  with  steady  employment,  as  wood- 
chopping  at  fifty  cents  a  cord,  and  a  camp  in  the  woods, 


SUNDAY  75 

will  not  be  a  good  subject  for  Christianity.  The  New 
Testament  may  be  a  choice  book  to  him  on  some,  but 
not  on  all  or  most  of  his  days.  He  will  rather  go  a-fishing 
in  his  leisure  hours.  The  Apostles,  though  they  were 
fishers  too,  were  of  the  solemn  race  of  sea-fishers,  and 
never  trolled  for  pickerel  on  inland  streams. 

Men  have  a  singular  desire  to  be  good  without  being 
good  for  anything,  because,  perchance,  they  think 
vaguely  that  so  it  will  be  good  for  them  in  the  end.  The 
sort  of  morality  which  the  priests  inculcate  is  a  very 
subtle  policy,  far  finer  than  the  politicians',  and  the 
world  is  very  successfully  ruled  by  them  as  the  police 
men.  It  is  not  worth  the  while  to  let  our  imperfections 
disturb  us  always.  The  conscience  really  does  not,  and 
ought  not  to  monopolize  the  whole  of  our  lives,  any 
more  than  the  heart  or  the  head.  It  is  as  liable  to  disease 
as  any  other  part.  I  have  seen  some  whose  consciences, 
owing  undoubtedly  to  former  indulgence,  had  grown  to 
be  as  irritable  as  spoilt  children,  and  at  length  gave  them 
no  peace.  They  did  not  know  when  to  swallow  their  cud, 
and  their  lives  of  course  yielded  no  milk. 

Conscience  is  instinct  bred  in  the  house 

Feeling  and  Thinking  propagate  the  sin 

By  an  unnatural  breeding  in  and  in. 

I  say,  Turn  it  outdoors  > 

Into  the  moors. 

I  love  a  life  whose  plot  is  simple, 

And  does  not  thicken  with  every  pimple, 

A  soul  so  sound  no  sickly  conscience  binds  it, 

That  makes  the  universe  no  worse  than  't  finds  it. 

I  love  an  earnest  soul, 

Whose  mighty  joy  and  sorrow 


76  A  WEEK 

Are  not  drowned  in  a  bowl, 

And  brought  to  life  to-morrow ; 

That  lives  one  tragedy, 

And  not  seventy ; 

A  conscience  worth  keeping, 

Laughing  not  weeping ; 

A  conscience  wise  and  steady, 

And  forever  ready  ; 

Not  changing  with  events, 

Dealing  in  compliments  ; 

A  conscience  exercised  about 

Large  things,  where  one  may  doubt. 

I  love  a  soul  not  all  of  wood, 

Predestinated  to  be  good, 

But  true  to  the  backbone 

Unto  itself  alone, 

And  false  to  none ; 

Born  to  its  own  affairs, 

Its  own  joys  and  own  cares  ; 

By  whom  the  work  which  God  begun 

Is  finished,  and  not  undone ; 

Taken  up  where  he  left  off, 

Whether  to  worship  or  to  scoff; 

If  not  good,  why  then  evil, 

If  not  good  god,  good  devil. 

Goodness!  —  you  hypocrite,  come  out  of  that, 

Live  your  life,  do  your  work,  then  take  your  hat. 

I  have  no  patience  towards 

Such  conscientious  cowards. 

Give  me  simple  laboring  folk, 

Who  love  their  work, 

Whose  virtue  is  a  song 

To  cheer  God  along. 

I  was  once  reproved  by  a  minister  who  was  driving 
a  poor  beast  to  some  meeting-house  horse-sheds  among 
the  hills  of  New  Hampshire,  because  I  was  bending 
my  steps  to  a  mountain-top  on  the  Sabbath,  instead  of  a 


SUNDAY  77 

church,  when  I  would  have  gone  farther  than  he  to  hear 
a  true  word  spoken  on  that  or  any  day.  He  declared 
that  I  was  "breaking  the  Lord's  fourth  command 
ment,"  and  proceeded  to  enumerate,  in  a  sepulchral 
tone,  the  disasters  which  had  befallen  him  whenever 
he  had  done  any  ordinary  work  on  the  Sabbath.  He 
really  thought  that  a  god  was  on  the  watch  to  trip  up 
those  men  who  followed  any  secular  work  on  this  day, 
and  did  not  see  that  it  was  the  evil  conscience  of  the 
workers  that  did  it.  The  country  is  full  of  this  super 
stition,  so  that  when  one  enters  a  village  the  church, 
not  only  really  but  from  association,  is  the  ugliest  look 
ing  building  in  it,  because  it  is  the  one  in  which  human 
nature  stoops  the  lowest  and  is  most  disgraced.  Cer 
tainly,  such  temples  as  these  shall  ere  long  cease  to 
deform  the  landscape.  There  are  few  things  more  dis 
heartening  and  disgusting  than  when  you  are  walking 
the  streets  of  a  strange  village  on  the  Sabbath,  to  hear  a 
preacher  shouting  like  a  boatswain  in  a  gale  of  wind,  and 
thus  harshly  profaning  the  quiet  atmosphere  of  the  day. 
You  fancy  him  to  have  taken  off  his  coat,  as  when  men 
are  about  to  do  hot  and  dirty  work. 

If  I  should  ask  the  minister  of  Middlesex  to  let  me 
speak  in  his  pulpit  on  a  Sunday,  he  would  object  because 
I  do  not  pray  as  he  does,  or  because  I  am  not  ordained. 
What  under  the  sun  are  these  things  ? 

Really,  there  is  no  infidelity,  nowadays,  so  great  as 
that  which  prays,  and  keeps  the  Sabbath,  and  rebuilds 
the  churches.  The  sealer  of  the  South  Pacific  preaches 
a  truer  doctrine.  The  church  is  a  sort  of  hospital  for 
men's  souls,  and  as  full  of  quackery  as  the  hospital  for 


78  A  WEEK 

their  bodies.  Those  who  are  taken  into  it  live  like  pen 
sioners  in  their  Retreat  or  Sailor's  Snug  Harbor,  where 
you  may  see  a  row  of  religious  cripples  sitting  outside 
in  sunny  weather.  Let  not  the  apprehension  that  he 
may  one  day  have  to  occupy  a  ward  therein  discourage 
the  cheerful  labors  of  the  able-souled  man.  While  he 
remembers  the  sick  in  their  extremities,  let  him  not  look 
thither  as  to  his  goal.  One  is  sick  at  heart  of  this  pagoda 
worship.  It  is  like  the  beating  of  gongs  in  a  Hindoo  sub 
terranean  temple.  In  dark  places  and  dungeons  the 
preacher's  words  might  perhaps  strike  root  and  grow, 
but  not  in  broad  daylight  in  any  part  of  the  world  that 
I  know.  The  sound  of  the  Sabbath  bell  far  away,  now 
breaking  on  these  shores,  does  not  awaken  pleasing 
associations,  but  melancholy  and  sombre  ones  rather. 
One  involuntarily  rests  on  his  oar,  to  humor  his  unusu 
ally  meditative  mood.  It  is  as  the  sound  of  many  cate 
chisms  and  religious  books  twanging  a  canting  peal 
round  the  earth,  seeming  to  issue  from  some  Egyptian 
temple  and  echo  along  the  shore  of  the  Nile,  right  oppo 
site  to  Pharaoh's  palace  and  Moses  in  the  bulrushes, 
startling  a  multitude  of  storks  and  alligators  basking  in 
the  sun. 

Everywhere  "good  men"  sound  a  retreat,  and  the 
word  has  gone  forth  to  fall  back  on  innocence.  Fall 
forward  rather  on  to  whatever  there  is  there.  Christian 
ity  only  hopes.  It  has  hung  its  harp  on  the  willows,  and 
cannot  sing  a  song  in  a  strange  land.  It  has  dreamed 
a  sad  dream,  and  does  not  yet  welcome  the  morning  with 
joy.  The  mother  tells  her  falsehoods  to  her  child,  but, 
thank  Heaven,  the  child  does  not  grow  up  in  its  parent's 


SUNDAY  79 

shadow.  Our  mother's  faith  has  not  grown  with  her 
experience.  Her  experience  has  been  too  much  for  her. 
The  lesson  of  life  was  too  hard  for  her  to  learn. 

It  is  remarkable  that  almost  all  speakers  and  writers 
feel  it  to  be  incumbent  on  them,  sooner  or  later,  to  prove 
or  to  acknowledge  the  personality  of  God.  Some  Earl 
of  Bridgewater,  thinking  it  better  late  than  never,  has 
provided  for  it  in  his  will.  It  is  a  sad  mistake.  In  read 
ing  a  work  on  agriculture,  we  have  to  skip  the  author's 
moral  reflections,  and  the  words  "  Providence "  and 
"  He  "  scattered  along  the  page,  to  come  at  the  profitable 
level  of  what  he  has  to  say.  What  he  calls  his  religion 
is  for  the  most  part  offensive  to  the  nostrils.  He  should 
know  better  than  expose  himself,  and  keep  his  foul  sores 
covered  till  they  are  quite  healed.  There  is  more  religion 
in  men's  science  than  there  is  science  in  their  religion. 
Let  us  make  haste  to  the  report  of  the  committee  on  swine. 

A  man's  real  faith  is  never  contained  in  his  creed, 
nor  is  his  creed  an  article  of  his  faith.  The  last  is  never 
adopted.  This  it  is  that  permits  him  to  smile  ever,  and  to 
live  even  as  bravely  as  he  does.  And  yet  he  clings  anx 
iously  to  his  creed,  as  to  a  straw,  thinking  that  that  does 
him  good  service  because  his  sheet  anchor  does  not  drag. 

In  most  men's  religion,  the  ligature  which  should  be 
its  umbilical  cord  connecting  them  with  divinity  is  rather 
like  that  thread  which  the  accomplices  of  Cylon  held  in 
their  hands  when  they  went  abroad  from  the  temple  of 
Minerva,  the  other  end  being  attached  to  the  statue  of 
the  goddess.  But  frequently,  as  in  their  case,  the  thread 
breaks,  being  stretched,  and  they  are  left  without  an 
asylum. 


80  A  WEEK 

"A  good  and  pious  man  reclined  his  head  on  the 
bosom  of  contemplation,  and  was  absorbed  in  the  ocean 
of  a  re  very.  At  the  instant  when  he  awaked  from  his 
vision,  one  of  his  friends,  by  way  of  pleasantry,  said, 
What  rare  gift  have  you  brought  us  from  that  garden, 
where  you  have  been  recreating  ?  He  replied,  I  fancied 
to  myself  and  said,  when  I  can  reach  the  rose-bower, 
I  will  fill  my  lap  with  the  flowers,  and  bring  them  as  a 
present  to  my  friends;  but  when  I  got  there,  the  fra 
grance  of  the  roses  so  intoxicated  me,  that  the  skirt 

dropped  from  my  hands. 'O  bird  of  dawn!   learn 

the  warmth  of  affection  from  the  moth;  for  that  scorched 
creature  gave  up  the  ghost,  and  uttered  not  a  groan: 
These  vain  pretenders  are  ignorant  of  him  they  seek 
after;  for  of  him  that  knew  him  we  never  heard  again :  — 
O  thou!  who  towerest  above  the  flights  of  conjecture, 
opinion,  and  comprehension;  whatever  has  been  re 
ported  of  thee  we  have  heard  and  read;  the  congrega 
tion  is  dismissed,  and  life  drawn  to  a  close;  and  we 
still  rest  at  our  first  encomium  of  thee ! '"  * 

By  noon  we  were  let  down  into  the  Merrimack  through 
the  locks  at  Middlesex,  just  above  Pawtucket  Falls,  by 
a  serene  and  liberal-minded  man,  who  came  quietly 
from  his  book,  though  his  duties,  we  supposed,  did  not 
require  him  to  open  the  locks  on  Sundays.  With  him  we 
had  a  just  and  equal  encounter  of  the  eyes,  as  between 
two  honest  men. 

The  movements  of  the  eyes  express  the  perpetual  and 
unconscious  courtesy  of  the  parties.  It  is  said  that  a 
i  Sadi. 


SUNDAY  81 

rogue  does  not  look  you  in  the  face,  neither  does  an 
honest  man  look  at  you  as  if  he  had  his  reputation  to 
establish.  I  have  seen  some  who  did  not  know  when  to 
turn  aside  their  eyes  in  meeting  yours.  A  truly  confident 
and  magnanimous  spirit  is  wiser  than  to  contend  for 
the  mastery  in  such  encounters.  Serpents  alone  conquer 
by  the  steadiness  of  their  gaze.  My  friend  looks  me  in 
the  face  and  sees  me,  that  is  all. 

The  best  relations  were  at  once  established  between 
us  and  this  man,  and  though  few  words  were  spoken,  he 
could  not  conceal  a  visible  interest  in  us  and  our  excur 
sion.  He  was  a  lover  of  the  higher  mathematics,  as  we 
found,  and  in  the  midst  of  some  vast  sunny  problem, 
when  we  overtook  him  and  whispered  our  conjectures. 
By  this  man  we  were  presented  with  the  freedom  of  the 
Merrimack.  We  now  felt  as  if  we  were  fairly  launched 
on  the  ocean  stream  of  our  voyage,  and  were  pleased  to 
find  that  our  boat  would  float  on  Merrimack  water.  We 
began  again  busily  to  put  in  practice  those  old  arts  of 
rowing,  steering,  and  paddling.  It  seemed  a  strange 
phenomenon  to  us  that  the  two  rivers  should  mingle  their 
waters  so  readily,  since  we  had  never  associated  them  in 
our  thoughts. 

As  we  glided  over  the  broad  bosom  of  the  Merrimack, 
between  Chelmsford  and  Dracut,  at  noon,  here  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  wide,  the  rattling  of  our  oars  was  echoed  over 
the  water  to  those  villages,  and  their  slight  sounds  to  us. 
Their  harbors  lay  as  smooth  and  fairy-like  as  the  Lida, 
or  Syracuse,  or  Rhodes,  in  our  imagination,  while,  like 
some  strange  roving  craft,  we  flitted  past  what  seemed 
the  dwellings  of  noble  home-staying  men,  seemingly  as 


82  A  WEEK 

conspicuous  as  if  on  an  eminence,  or  floating  upon  a 
tide  which  came  up  to  those  villagers'  breasts.  At  a 
third  of  a  mile  over  the  water  we  heard  distinctly  some 
children  repeating  their  catechism  in  a  cottage  near  the 
shore,  while  in  the  broad  shallows  between,  a  herd  of 
cows  stood  lashing  their  sides,  and  waging  war  with  the 
flies. 

Two  hundred  years  ago,  other  catechizing  than  this 
was  going  on  here;  for  here  came  the  Sachem  Wanna- 
lancet  and  his  people,  and  sometimes  Tahatawan,  our 
Concord  Sachem,  who  afterwards  had  a  church  at  home, 
to  catch  fish  at  the  falls ;  and  here  also  came  John  Eliot, 
with  the  Bible  and  Catechism,  and  Baxter's  "Call  to  the 
Unconverted,"  and  other  tracts,  done  into  the  Massa 
chusetts  tongue,  and  taught  them  Christianity  mean 
while.  "  This  place  "  says  Gookin,  referring  to  Wame- 
sit,  "  being  an  ancient  and  capital  seat  of  Indians,  they 
come  to  fish ;  and  this  good  man  takes  this  opportunity 
to  spread  the  net  of  the  gospel,  to  fish  for  their  souls." 
"May  5,  1674,"  he  continues,  "according  to  our  usual 
cutsom,  Mr.  Eliot  and  myself  took  our  journey  to 
Wamesit,  or  Pawtuckett;  and  arriving  there  that  even 
ing,  Mr.  Eliot  preached  to  as  many  of  them  as  could  be 
got  together,  out  of  Matt.  xxii.  1-14,  the  parable  of  the 
marriage  of  the  king's  son.  We  met  at  the  wigwam  of 
one  called  Wannalancet,  about  two  miles  from  the  town, 
near  Pawtuckett  falls,  and  bordering  upon  Merrimak 
river.  This  person,  Wannalancet,  is  the  eldest  son  of 
old  Pasaconaway,  the  chiefest  sachem  of  Pawtuckett. 
He  is  a  sober  and  grave  person,  and  of  years,  between 
fifty  and  sixty.  He  hath  been  always  loving  and  friendly 


SUNDAY  83 

to  the  English."  As  yet,  however,  they  had  not  prevailed 
on  him  to  embrace  the  Christian  religion.  "  But  at  this 
time,"  says  Gookin,  "May  6,  1674,"  —  "after  some 
deliberation  and  serious  pause,  he  stood  up,  and  made 
a  speech  to  this  effect :  '  I  must  acknowledge  I  have,  all 
my  days,  used  to  pass  in  an  old  canoe,  [alluding  to  his 
frequent  custom  to  pass  in  a  canoe  upon  the  river,]  and 
now  you  exhort  me  to  change  and  leave  my  old  canoe, 
and  embark  in  a  new  canoe,  to  which  I  have  hitherto 
been  unwilling;  but  now  I  yield  up  myself  to  your  ad 
vice,  and  enter  into  a  new  canoe,  and  do  engage  to  pray 
to  God  hereafter. ' "  One  "  Mr.  Richard  Daniel,  a  gen 
tleman  that  lived  in  Billerica,"  who  with  other  "  persons 
of  quality"  was  present,  "desired  brother  Eliot  to  tell 
the  sachem  from  him,  that  it  may  be,  while  he  went  in 
his  old  canoe,  he  passed  in  a  quiet  stream;  but  the  end 
thereof  was  death  and  destruction  to  soul  and  body.  But 
now  he  went  into  a  new  canoe,  perhaps  he  would  meet 
with  storms  and  trials,  but  yet  he  should  be  encouraged 
to  persevere,  for  the  end  of  his  voyage  would  be  ever 
lasting  rest."  "  Since  that  time,  I  hear  this  sachem  doth 
persevere,  and  is  a  constant  and  diligent  hearer  of  God's 
word,  and  sanctifieth  the  Sabbath,  though  he  doth  travel 
to  Wamesit  meeting  every  Sabbath,  which  is  above  two 
miles;  and  though  sundry  of  his  people  have  deserted 
him,  since  he  subjected  to  the  gospel,  yet  he  continues 
and  persists."  l 

Already,  as  appears  from  the  records,  "At  a  General 
Court  held  at  Boston  in  New  England,  the  7th  of  the 
first   month,    1643-44,"    "  Wassamequin,    Nashoonon, 
»  Gookin's  Hist.  Cott.  of  the  Indians  in  New  England,  1674. 


84  A  WEEK 

Kutchamaquin,  Massaconomet,  and  Squaw  Sachem, 
did  voluntarily  submit  themselves  "  to  the  English;  and 
among  other  things  did  "  promise  to  be  willing  from  time 
to  time  to  be  instructed  in  the  knowledge  of  God." 
Being  asked  "not  to  do  any  unnecessary  work  on  the 
Sabbath  day,  especially  within  the  gates  of  Christian 
towns/'  they  answered,  "It  is  easy  to  them;  they  have 
not  much  to  do  on  any  day,  and  they  can  well  take  their 
rest  on  that  day."  "  So,"  says  Winthrop,  in  his  Journal, 
"  we  causing  them  to  understand  the  articles,  and  all  the 
ten  commandments  of  God,  and  they  freely  assenting  to 
all,  they  were  solemnly  received,  and  then  presented  the 
Court  with  twenty-six  fathom  more  of  wampom;  and 
the  Court  gave  each  of  them  a  coat  of  two  yards  of  cloth, 
and  their  dinner;  and  to  them  and  their  men,  every  of 
them,  a  cup  of  sack  at  their  departure;  so  they  took 
leave  and  went  away." 

What  journeyings  on  foot  and  on  horseback  through 
the  wilderness,  to  preach  the  gospel  to  these  minks  and 
muskrats!  who  first,  no  doubt,  listened  with  their  red 
ears  out  of  a  natural  hospitality  and  courtesy,  and  after 
ward  from  curiosity  or  even  interest,  till  at  length  there 
"were  praying  Indians,"  and,  as  the  General  Court 
wrote  to  Cromwell,  the  "  work  is  brought  to  this  perfec 
tion  that  some  of  the  Indians  themselves  can  pray  and 
prophesy  in  a  comfortable  manner." 

It  was  in  fact  an  old  battle  and  hunting  ground 
through  which  we  had  been  floating,  the  ancient  dwell 
ing-place  of  a  race  of  hunters  and  warriors.  Their  weirs 
of  stone,  their  arrowheads  and  hatchets,  their  pestles, 
and  the  mortars  in  which  they  pounded  Indian  corn 


SUNDAY  85 

before  the  white  man  had  tasted  it,  lay  concealed  in  the 
mud  of  the  river  bottom.  Tradition  still  points  out  the" 
spots  where  they  took  fish  in  the  greatest  numbers, 
by  such  arts  as  they  possessed.  It  is  a  rapid  story  the 
historian  will  have  to  put  together.  Miantonimo,  — 
Winthrop,  —  Webster.  Soon  he  comes  from  Montaup 
to  Bunker  Hill,  from  bear-skins,  parched  corn,  bows 
and  arrows,  to  tiled  roofs,  wheat-fields,  guns  and  swords. 
Pawtucket  and  Wamesit,  where  the  Indians  resorted 
in  the  fishing  season,  are  now  Lowell,  the  city  of  spindles 
and  Manchester  of  America,  which  sends  its  cotton 
cloth  round  the  globe.  Even  we  youthful  voyagers  had 
spent  a  part  of  our  lives  in  the  village  of  Chelmsford, 
when  the  present  city,  whose  bells  we  heard,  was  its 
obscure  north  district  only,  and  the  giant  weaver  was  not 
yet  fairly  born.  So  old  are  we;  so  young  is  it. 

We  were  thus  entering  the  State  of  New  Hampshire 
on  the  bosom  of  the  flood  formed  by  the  tribute  of  its 
innumerable  valleys.  The  river  was  the  only  key  which 
could  unlock  its  maze,  presenting  its  hills  and  valleys, 
its  lakes  and  streams,  in  their  natural  order  and  position. 
The  Merrimack,  or  Sturgeon  River,  is  formed  by  the 
confluence  of  the  Pemigewasset,  which  rises  near  the 
Notch  of  the  White  Mountains,  and  the  Winnipiseogee, 
which  drains  the  lake  of  the  same  name,  signifying  "  The 
Smile  of  the  Great  Spirit."  From  their  junction  it  runs 
south  seventy-eight  miles  to  Massachusetts,  and  thence 
east  thirty-five  miles  to  the  sea.  I  have  traced  its  stream 
from  where  it  bubbles  out  of  the  rocks  of  the  White 
Mountains  above  the  clouds,  to  where  it  is  lost  amid  the 


86  A  WEEK 

salt  billows  of  the  ocean  on  Plum  Island  beach.  At  first  it 
comes  on  murmuring  to  itself  by  the  base  of  stately  and 
retired  mountains,  through  moist  primitive  woods  whose 
juices  it  rec'eives,  where  the  bear  still  drinks  it,  and  the 
cabins  of  settlers  are  far  between,  and  there  are  few  to 
cross  its  stream;  enjoying  in  solitude  its  cascades  still 
unknown  to  fame;  by  long  ranges  of  mountains  of 
Sandwich  and  of  Squam,  slumbering  like  tumuli  of 
Titans,  with  the  peaks  of  Moose-hillock,  the  Haystack, 
and  Kearsarge  reflected  in  its  waters;  where  the  maple 
and  the  raspberry,  those  lovers  of  the  hills,  flourish  amid 
temperate  dews ;  —  flowing  long  and  full  of  meaning, 
but  untranslatable  as  its  name  Pemigewasset,  by  many 
a  pastured  Pelion  and  Ossa,  where  unnamed  muses 
haunt,  tended  by  Oreads,  Dryads,  Naiads,  and  receiving 
the  tribute  of  many  an  untasted  Hippocrene.  There  are 
earth,  air,  fire,  and  water,  —  very  well,  this  is  water 
and  down  it  comes. 

Such  water  do  the  gods  distill, 
And  pour  down  every  hill 

For  their  New  England  men; 
A  draught  of  this  wild  nectar  bring, 
And  I'll  not  taste  the  spring 

Of  Helicon  again. 

Falling  all  the  way,  and  yet  not  discouraged  by  the 
lowest  fall.  By  the  law  of  its  birth  never  to  become  stag 
nant,  for  it  has  come  out  of  the  clouds,  and  down  the 
sides  of  precipices  worn  in  the  flood,  through  beaver- 
dams  broke  loose,  not  splitting  but  splicing  and  mending 
itself,  until  it  found  a  breathing-place  in  this  low  land. 
There  is  no  danger  now  that  the  sun  will  steal  it  back 


SUNDAY  87 

to  heaven  again  before  it  reach  the  sea,  for  it  has  a  war 
rant  even  to  recover  its  own  dews  into  its  bosom  again 
with  interest  at  every  eve. 

It  was  already  the  water  of  Squam  and  Newfound 
Lake  and  Winnipiseogee,  and  White  Mountain  snow 
dissolved,  on  which  we  were  floating,  and  Smith's  and 
Baker's  and  Mad  Rivers,  and  Nashua  and  Souhegan 
and  Piscataquoag,  and  Suncook  and  Soucook  and  Con- 
toocook,  mingled  in  incalculable  proportions,  still  fluid, 
yellowish,  restless  all,  with  an  ancient,  ineradicable 
inclination  to  the  sea. 

So  it  flows  on  down  by  Lowell  and  Haverhill,  at  which 
last  place  it  first  suffers  a  sea  change,  and  a  few  masts 
betray  the  vicinity  of  the  ocean.  Between  the  towns  of 
Amesbury  and  Newbury  it  is  a  broad,  commercial  river, 
from  a  third  to  half  a  mile  in  width,  no  longer  skirted 
with  yellow  and  crumbling  banks,  but  backed  by  high 
green  hills  and  pastures,  with  frequent  white  beaches  on 
which  the'  fishermen  draw  up  their  nets.  I  have  passed 
down  this  portion  of  the  river  in  a  steamboat,  and  it  was 
a  pleasant  sight  to  watch  from  its  deck  the  fishermen 
dragging  their  seines  on  the  distant  shore,  as  in  pictures 
of  a  foreign  strand.  At  intervals  you  may  meet  with  a 
schooner  laden  with  lumber,  standing  up  to  Haverhill, 
or  else  lying  at  anchor  or  aground,  waiting  for  wind  or 
tide;  until,  at  last,  you  glide  under  the  famous  Chain 
Bridge,  and  are  landed  at  Newburyport.  Thus  she  who 
at  first  was  "  poore  of  waters,  naked  of  renowne,"  having 
received  so  many  fair  tributaries,  as  was  said  of  the 
Forth,  — 


88  A  WEEK 

"Doth  grow  the  greater  still,  the  further  downe; 
Till  that  abounding  both  in  power  and  fame, 
She  long  doth  strive  to  give  the  sea  her  name;" 

or  if  not  her  name,  in  this  case,  at  least  the  impulse  of  her 
stream.  From  the  steeples  of  Newburyport  you  may 
review  this  river  stretching  far  up  into  the  country,  with 
many  a  white  sail  glancing  over  it  like  an  inland  sea,  and 
behold,  as  one  wrote  who  was  born  on  its  head-waters, 
"  Down  out  at  its  mouth,  the  dark  inky  main  blending 
with  the  blue  above.  Plum  Island,  its  sand  ridges  scol 
loping  along  the  horizon  like  the  sea-serpent,  and  the 
distant  outline  broken  by  many  a  tall  ship,  leaning,  still, 
against  the  sky." 

Rising  at  an  equal  height  with  the  Connecticut,  the 
Merrimack  reaches  the  sea  by  a  course  only  half  as 
long,  and  hence  has  no  leisure  to  form  broad  and  fertile 
meadows,  like  the  former,  but  is  hurried  along  rapids, 
and  down  numerous  falls,  without  long  delay.  The 
banks  are  generally  steep  and  high,  with  a  narrow  inter 
val  reaching  back  to  the  hills,  which  is  only  rarely  or  par 
tially  overflown  at  present,  and  is  much  valued  by  the 
farmers.  Between  Chelmsford  and  Concord,  in  New 
Hampshire,  it  varies  from  twenty  to  seventy-five  rods  in 
width.  It  is  probably  wider  than  it  was  formerly,  in 
many  places,  owing  to  the  trees  having  been  cut  down, 
and  the  consequent  wasting  away  of  its  banks.  The 
influence  of  the  Pawtucket  Dam  is  felt  as  far  up  as  Crom 
well's  Falls,  and  many  think  that  the  banks  are  being 
abraded  and  the  river  filled  up  again  by  this  cause.  Like 
all  our  rivers,  it  is  liable  to  freshets,  and  the  Pemige- 
wasset  has  been  known  to  rise  twenty-five  feet  in  a  few 


SUNDAY  89 

hours.  It  is  navigable  for  vessels  of  burden  about  twenty 
miles;  for  canal-boats,  by  means  of  locks,  as  far  as 
Concord  in  New  Hampshire,  about  seventy-five  miles 
from  its  mouth ;  and  for  smaller  boats  to  Plymouth,  one 
hundred  and  thirteen  miles.  A  small  steamboat  once 
plied  between  Lowell  and  Nashua,  before  the  railroad 
was  built,  and  one  now  runs  from  Newburyport  to 
Haverhill. 

Unfitted  to  some  extent  for  the  purposes  of  commerce 
by  the  sand-bar  at  its  mouth,  see  how  this  river  was 
devoted  from  the  first  to  the  service  of  manufactures. 
Issuing  from  the  iron  region  of  Franconia,  and  flow 
ing  through  still  uncut  forests,  by  inexhaustible  ledges 
of  granite,  with  Squam,  and  Winnipiseogee,  and  New 
found,  and  Massabesic  Lakes  for  its  mill-ponds,  it  falls 
over  a  succession  of  natural  dams,  where  it  has  been 
offering  its  privileges  in  vain  for  ages,  until  at  last  the 
Yankee  race  came  to  improve  them.  Standing  at  its 
mouth,  look  up  its  sparkling  stream  to  its  source,  —  a 
silver  cascade  which  falls  all  the  way  from  the  White 
Mountains  to  the  sea,  —  and  behold  a  city  on  each  suc 
cessive  plateau,  a  busy  colony  of  human  beaver  around 
every  fall.  Not  to  mention  Newburyport  and  Haverhill, 
see  Lawrence,  and  Lowell,  and  Nashua,  and  Manches 
ter,  and  Concord,  gleaming  one  above  the  other.  When 
at  length  it  has  escaped  from  under  the  last  of  the  fac 
tories,  it  has  a  level  and  unmolested  passage  to  the  sea, 
a  mere  waste  water,  as  it  were,  bearing  little  with  it  but 
its  fame;  its  pleasant  course  revealed  by  the  morning 
fog  which  hangs  over  it,  and  the  sails  of  the  few  small 
vessels  which  transact  the  commerce  of  Haverhill  and 


90  A  WEEK 

Newburyport.  But  its  real  vessels  are  railroad  cars,  and 
its  true  and  main  stream,  flowing  by  an  iron  channel 
farther  south,  may  be  traced  by  a  long  line  of  vapor 
amid  the  hills,  which  no  morning  wind  ever  disperses,  to 
where  it  empties  into  the  sea  at  Boston.  This  side  is  the 
louder  murmur  now.  Instead  of  the  scream  of  a  fish 
hawk  scaring  the  fishes,  is  heard  the  whistle  of  the  steam- 
engine,  arousing  a  country  to  its  progress. 

This  river  too  was  at  length  discovered  by  the  white 
man,  "trending  up  into  the  land,"  he  knew  not  how  far, 
possibly  an  inlet  to  the  South  Sea.  Its  valley,  as  far  as 
the  Winnipiseogee,  was  first  surveyed  in  1652.  The  first 
settlers  of  Massachusetts  supposed  that  the  Connecticut, 
in  one  part  of  its  course,  ran  northwest,  "so  near  the 
great  lake  as  the  Indians  do  pass  their  canoes  into  it  over 
land."  From  which  lake  and  the  "hideous  swamps" 
about  it,  as  they  supposed,  came  all  the  beaver  that  was 
traded  between  Virginia  and  Canada,  —  and  the  Poto 
mac  was  thought  to  come  out  of  or  from  very  near  it. 
Afterward  the  Connecticut  came  so  near  the  course  of 
the  Merrimack  that,  with  a  little  pains,  they  expected  to 
divert  the  current  of  the  trade  into  the  latter  river,  and 
its  profits  from  their  Dutch  neighbors  into  their  own 
pockets. 

Unlike  the  Concord,  the  Merrimack  is  not  a  dead  but 
a  living  stream,  though  it  has  less  life  within  its  waters 
and  on  its  banks.  It  has  a  swift  current,  and,  in  this  part 
of  its  course,  a  clayey  bottom,  almost  no  weeds,  and  com 
paratively  few  fishes.  We  looked  down  into  its  yellow 
water  with  the  more  curiosity,  who  were  accustomed 


SUNDAY  91 

to  the  Nile-like  blackness  of  the  former  river.  Shad  and 
alewives  are  taken  here  in  their  season,  but  salmon, 
though  at  one  time  more  numerous  than  shad,  are  now 
more  rare.  Bass,  also,  are  taken  occasionally;  but  locks 
and  dams  have  proved  more  or  less  destructive  to  the 
fisheries.  The  shad  make  their  appearance  early  in  May, 
at  the  same  time  with  the  blossoms  of  the  pyrus,  one  of 
the  most  conspicuous  early  flowers,  which  is  for  this  rea 
son  called  the  shad-blossom.  An  insect  called  the  shad- 
fly  also  appears  at  the  same  time,  covering  the  houses 
and  fences.  We  are  told  that  "  their  greatest  run  is  when 
the  apple-trees  are  in  full  blossom.  The  old  shad  return 
in  August;  the  young,  three  or  four  inches  long,  in 
September.  These  are  very  fond  of  flies."  A  rather  pic 
turesque  and  luxurious  mode  of  fishing  was  formerly 
practiced  on  the  Connecticut,  at  Bellows  Falls,  where  a 
large  rock  divides  the  stream.  "  On  the  steep  sides  of  the 
island  rock,"  says  Belknap,  "hang  several  arm-chairs, 
fastened  to  ladders,  and  secured  by  a  counterpoise,  in 
which  fishermen  sit  to  catch  salmon  and  shad  with  dip 
ping  nets."  The  remains  of  Indian  weirs,  made  of  large 
stones,  are  still  to  be  seen  in  the  Winnipiseogee,  one  of 
the  head-waters  of  this  river. 

It  cannot  but  affect  our  philosophy  favorably  to  be 
reminded  of  these  shoals  of  migratory  fishes,  of  salmon, 
shad,  alewives,  marsh-bankers,  and  others,  which  pen 
etrate  up  the  innumerable  rivers  of  our  coast  in  the 
spring,  even  to  the  interior  lakes,  their  scales  gleaming 
in  the  sun;  and  again,  of  the  fry  which  in  still  greater 
numbers  wend  their  way  downward  to  the  sea.  "  And  is 
it  not  pretty  sport,"  wrote  Captain  John  Smith,  who  was 


92  A  WEEK 

on  this  coast  as  early  as  1614,  "to  pull  up  twopence,  six 
pence,  and  twelvepence,  as  fast  as  you  can  haul  and  veer 
a  line  ?  "  "  And  what  sport  doth  yield  a  more  pleasing 
content,  and  less  hurt  or  charge,  than  angling  with  a 
hook,  and  crossing  the  sweet  air  from  isle  to  isle,  over  the 
silent  streams  of  a  calm  sea  ?  " 

On  the  sandy  shore,  opposite  the  Glass-house  village 
in  Chelmsford,  at  the  Great  Bend,  where  we  landed  to 
rest  us  and  gather  a  few  wild  plums,  we  discovered  the 
Campanula  rotundifolia,  a  new  flower  to  us,  the  harebell 
of  the  poets,  which  is  common  to  both  hemispheres, 
growing  close  to  the  water.  Here,  in  the  shady  branches 
of  an  apple  tree  on  the  sand,  we  took  our  nooning,  where 
there  was  not  a  zephyr  to  disturb  the  repose  of  this 
glorious  Sabbath  day,  and  we  reflected  serenely  on  the 
long  past  and  successful  labors  of  Latona. 

"So  silent  is  the  cessile  air, 
That  every  cry  and  call, 
The  hills,  and  dales,  and  forest  fair 
Again  repeats  them  all. 

"The  herds  beneath  some  leafy  trees, 

Amidst  the  flowers  they  lie, 
The  stable  ships  upon  the  seas 
Tend  up  their  sails  to  dry." 

As  we  thus  rested  in  the  shade,  or  rowed  leisurely 
along,  we  had  recourse,  from  time  to  time,  to  the  Gazet 
teer,  which  was  our  Navigator,  and  from  its  bald  natural 
facts  extracted  the  pleasure  of  poetry.  Beaver  River 
comes  in  a  little  lower  down,  draining  the  meadows  of 
Pelham,  Windham,  and  Londonderry.  The  Scotch- 


SUNDAY  93 

Irish  settlers  of  the  latter  town,  according  to  this  author 
ity,  were  the  first  to  introduce  the  potato  into  New 
England,  as  well  as  the  manufacture  of  linen  cloth. 

Everything  that  is  printed  and  bound  in  a  book  con 
tains  some  echo  at  least  of  the  best  that  is  in  literature. 
Indeed,  the  best  books  have  a  use,  like  sticks  and  stones, 
which  is  above  or  beside  their  design,  not  anticipated 
in  the  preface,  not  concluded  in  the  appendix.  Even 
Virgil's  poetry  serves  a  very  different  use  to  me  to-day 
from  what  it  did  to  his  contemporaries.  It  has  often  an 
acquired  and  accidental  value  merely,  proving  that  man 
is  still  man  in  the  world.  It  is  pleasant  to  meet  with  such 
still  lines  as,  — 

"Jam  laeto  turgent  in  palmite  gemmae;" 

Now  the  buds  swell  on  the  joyful  stem. 
"Strata  jacent  passim  sua  quaeque  sub  arbore  poma;" 

The  apples  lie  scattered  everywhere,  each  under  its  tree. 

In  an  ancient  and  dead  language,  any  recognition  of 
living  nature  attracts  us.  These  are  such  sentences  as 
were  written  while  grass  grew  and  water  ran.  It  is  no 
small  recommendation  when  a  book  will  stand  the  test 
of  mere  unobstructed  sunshine  and  daylight. 

What  would  we  not  give  for  some  great  poem  to  read 
now,  which  would  be  in  harmony  with  the  scenery,  — 
for  if  men  read  aright,  methinks  they  would  never  read 
anything  but  poems.  No  history  nor  philosophy  can 
supply  their  place. 

The  wisest  definition  of  poetry  the  poet  will  instantly 
prove  false  by  setting  aside  its  requisitions.  We  can, 
therefore,  publish  only  our  advertisement  of  it. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  loftiest  written  wisdom  is 


94  A  WEEK 

either  rhymed  or  in  some  way  musically  measured,  —  is, 
in  form  as  well  as  substance,  poetry;  and  a  volume 
which  should  contain  the  condensed  wisdom  of  man 
kind  need  not  have  one  rhythmless  line. 

Yet  poetry,  though  the  last  and  finest  result,  is  a 
natural  fruit.  As  naturally  as  the  oak  bears  an  acorn, 
and  the  vine  a  gourd,  man  bears  a  poem,  either  spoken 
or  done.  It  is  the  chief  and  most  memorable  success,  for 
history  is  but  a  prose  narrative  of  poetic  deeds.  What  else 
have  the  Hindoos,  the  Persians,  the  Babylonians,  the 
Egyptians  done,  that  can  be  told  ?  It  is  the  simplest  rela 
tion  of  phenomena,  and  describes  the  commonest  sensa 
tions  with  more  truth  than  science  does,  and  the  latter  at 
a  distance  slowly  mimics  its  style  and  methods.  The 
poet  sings  how  the  blood  flows  in  his  veins.  He  performs 
his  functions,  and  is  so  well  that  he  needs  such  stimulus 
to  sing  only  as  plants  to  put  forth  leaves  and  blossoms. 
He  would  strive  in  vain  to  modulate  the  remote  and 
transient  music  which  he  sometimes  hears,  since  his  song 
is  a  vital  function  like  breathing,  and  an  integral  result 
like  weight.  It  is  not  the  overflowing  of  life,  but  its  sub 
sidence  rather,  and  is  drawn  from  under  the  feet  of  the 
poet.  It  is  enough  if  Homer  but  say  the  sun  sets.  He  is 
as  serene  as  nature,  and  we  can  hardly  detect  the  enthu 
siasm  of  the  bard.  It  is  as  if  nature  spoke.  He  presents 
to  us  the  simplest  pictures  of  human  life,  so  the  child 
itself  can  understand  them,  and  the  man  must  not 
think  twice  to  appreciate  his  naturalness.  Each  reader 
discovers  for  himself  that,  with  respect  to  the  simpler 
features  of  nature,  succeeding  poets  have  done  little  else 
than  copy  his  similes.  His  more  memorable  passages  are 


SUNDAY  95 

as  naturally  bright  as  gleams  of  sunshine  in  misty 
weather.  Nature  furnishes  him  not  only  with  words,  but 
with  stereotyped  lines  and  sentences  from  her  mint. 

"As  from  the  clouds  appears  the  full  moon, 

All  shining,  and  then  again  it  goes  behind  the  shadowy  clouds, 

So  Hector  at  one  time  appeared  among  the  foremost, 

And  at  another  in  the  rear,  commanding;  and  all  with  brass 

He  shone,  like  to  the  lightning  of  aegis-bearing  Zeus." 

He  conveys  the  least  information,  even  the  hour  of 
the  day,  with  such  magnificence  and  vast  expense  of 
natural  imagery,  as  if  it  were  a  message  from  the  gods. 

"While  it  was  dawn,  and  sacred  day  was  advancing, 

For  that  space  the  weapons  of  both  flew  fast,  and  the  people  fell; 

But  when  now  the  woodcutter  was  preparing  his  morning  meal, 

In  the  recesses  of  the  mountain,  and  had  wearied  his  hands 

With  cutting  lofty  trees,  and  satiety  came  to  his  mind, 

And  the  desire  of  sweet  food  took  possession  of  his  thoughts; 

Then  the  Danaans,  by  their  valor,  broke  the  phalanxes, 

Shouting  to  their  companions  from  rank  to  rank." 

When  the  army  of  the  Trojans  passed  the  night  under 
arms,  keeping  watch  lest  the  enemy  should  reembark 
under  cover  of  the  dark,  — 

"They,  thinking  great  things,  upon  the  neutral  ground  of  war 

Sat  all  the  night;  and  many  fires  burned  for  them. 

As  when  in  the  heavens  the  stars  round  the  bright  moon 

Appear  beautiful,  and  the  air  is  without  wind; 

And  all  the  .heights,  and  the  extreme  summits, 

And  the  wooded  sides  of  the  mountains  appear;  and  from  the  heavens 

an  infinite  ether  is  diffused, 

And  all  the  stars  are  seen;  and  the  shepherd  rejoices  in  his  heart; 
So  between  the  ships  and  the  streams  of  Xanthus 
Appeared  the  fires  of  the  Trojans  before  Hium. 
A  thousand  fires  burned  on  the  plain;  and  by  each 
Sat  fifty,  in  the  light  of  the  blazing  fire; 


96  A  WEEK 

And  horses  eating  white  barley  and  corn, 

Standing  by  the  chariots,  awaited  fair-throned  Aurora." 

The  "  white-armed  goddess  Juno,"  sent  by  the  Father 
of  gods  and  men  for  Iris  and  Apollo,  — 

"Went  down  the  Idaean  mountains  to  far  Olympus, 

As  when  the  mind  of  a  man,  who  has  come  over  much  earth, 

Sallies  forth,  and  he  reflects  with  rapid  thoughts, 

There  was  I,  and  there,  and  remembers  many  things; 

So  swiftly  the  august  Juno  hastening  flew  through  the  air, 

And  came  to  high  Olympus." 

His  scenery  is  always  true,  and  not  invented.  He  does 
not  leap  in  imagination  from  Asia  to  Greece,  through 
mid-air,  — 


otfped  T€  ffKi6fvra,  6d\a<r<rd  re  Ti 

For  there  are  very  many 
Shady  mountains  and  resounding  seas  between. 

If  his  messengers  repair  but  to  the  tent  of  Achilles,  we 
do  not  wonder  how  they  got  there,  but  accompany  them 
step  by  step  along  the  shore  of  the  resounding  sea. 
Nestor's  account  of  the  march  of  the  Pylians  against 
the  Epeians  is  extremely  lifelike  :  — 

"Then  rose  up  at  them  sweet-worded  Nestor,  the  shrill  orator  of  the 

Pylians, 
And  words  sweeter  than  honey  flowed  from  his  tongue." 

This  time,  however,  he  addresses  Patroclus  alone:  "A 
certain  river,  Minyas  by  name,  leaps  seaward  near  to 
Arene,  where  we  Pylians  wait  the  dawn,  both  horse  and 
foot.  Thence  with  all  haste  we  sped  us  on  the  morrow 
ere  't  was  noonday,  accoutred  for  the  fight,  even  to 
Alpheus's  sacred  source,"  etc.  We  fancy  that  we  hear 


SUNDAY  97 

the  subdued  murmuring  of  the  Minyas  discharging  its 
waters  into  the  main  the  livelong  night,  and  the  hollow 
sound  of  the  waves  breaking  on  the  shore,  —  until  at 
length  we  are  cheered  at  the  close  of  a  toilsome  march  by 
the  gurgling  fountains  of  Alpheus. 

There  are  few  books  which  are  fit  to  be  remembered 
in  our  wisest  hours,  but  the  Iliad  is  brightest  in  the 
serenest  days,  and  embodies  still  all  the  sunlight  that  fell 
on  Asia  Minor.  No  modern  joy  or  ecstasy  of  ours  can 
lower  its  height  or  dim  its  lustre,  but  there  it  lies  in  the 
east  of  literature,  as  it  were  the  earliest  and  latest  pro 
duction  of  the  mind.  The  ruins  of  Egypt  oppress  and 
stifle  us  with  their  dust,  foulness  preserved  in  cassia  and 
pitch,  and  swathed  in  linen;  the  death  of  that  which 
never  lived.  But  the  rays  of  Greek  poetry  struggle  down 
to  us,  and  mingle  with  the  sunbeams  of  the  recent  day. 
The  statue  of  Memnon  is  cast  down,  but  the  shaft  of 
the  Iliad  still  meets  the  sun  in  his  rising. 

"  Homer  is  gone  ;   and  where  is  Jove  ?  and  where 
The  rival  cities  seven?    His  song  outlives 
Time,  tower,  and  god,  —  all  that  then  was,  save  Heaven." 

So,  too,  no  doubt,  Homer  had  his  Homer,  and 
Orpheus  his  Orpheus,  in  the  dim  antiquity  which  pre 
ceded  them.  The  mythological  system  of  the  ancients, 
—  and  it  is  still  the  mythology  of  the  moderns,  the  poem 
of  mankind, — interwoven  so  wonderfully  with  their  as 
tronomy,  and  matching  in  grandeur  and  harmony  the 
architecture  of  the  heavens  themselves,  seems  to  point 
to  a  time  when  a  mightier  genius  inhabited  the  earth. 
But,  after  all,  man  is  the  great  poet,  and  not  Homer  nor 
Shakespeare;  and  our  language  itself,  and  the  common 


98  A  WEEK 

arts  of  life,  are  his  work.  Poetry  is  so  universally  true 
and  independent  of  experience  that  it  does  not  need  any 
particular  biography  to  illustrate  it,  but  we  refer  it  sooner 
or  later  to  some  Orpheus  or  Linus,  and  after  ages  to  the 
genius  of  humanity  and  the  gods  themselves. 

It  would  be  worth  the  while  to  select  our  reading, 
for  books  are  the  society  we  keep;  to  read  only  the 
serenely  true;  never  statistics,  nor  fiction,  nor  news, 
nor  reports,  nor  periodicals,  but  only  great  poems,  and 
when  they  failed,  read  them  again,  or  perchance  write 
more.  Instead  of  other  sacrifice,  we  might  offer  up  our 
perfect  (reXeta)  thoughts  to  the  gods  daily,  in  hymns  or 
(  psalms.  For  we  should  be  at  the  helm  at  least  once  a  day. 
The  whole  of  the  day  should  not  be  daytime;  there 
should  be  one  hour,  if  no  more,  which  the  day  did  not 
bring  forth.  Scholars  are  wont  to  sell  their  birthright  for 
a  mess  of  learning.  But  is  it  necessary  to  know  what  the 
speculator  prints,  or  the  thoughtless  study,  or  the  idle 
read,  the  literature  of  the  Russians  and  the  Chinese,  or 
even  French  philosophy  and  much  of  German  criticism  ? 
Read  the  best  books  first,  or  you  may  not  have  a  chance 
to  read  them  at  all.  "There  are  the  worshipers  with 
offerings,  and  the  worshipers  with  mortifications;  and 
again  the  worshipers  with  enthusiastic  devotion;  so 
there  are  those  the  wisdom  of  whose  reading  is  their 
worship,  men  of  subdued  passions  and  severe  manners. 
—  This  world  is  not  for  him  who  doth  not  worship ;  and 
where,  O  Arjoon,  is  there  another  ?  "  Certainly,  we  do 
not  need  to  be  soothed  and  entertained  always  like  chil 
dren.  He  who  resorts  to  the  easy  novel,  because  he  is 


SUNDAY  99 

languid,  does  no  better  than  if  he  took  a  nap.  The  front 
aspect  of  great  thoughts  can  only  be  enjoyed  by  those 
who  stand  on  the  side  whence  they  arrive.  Books,  not 
which  afford  us  a  cowering  enjoyment,  but  in  which  each 
thought  is  of  unusual  daring;  such  as  an  idle  man  cannot 
read,  and  a  timid  one  would  not  be  entertained  by, 
which  even  make  us  dangerous  to  existing  institutions, 
—  such  call  I  good  books. 

All  that  are  printed  and  bound  are  not  books;  they 
do  not  necessarily  belong  to  letters,  but  are  oftener  to  be 
ranked  with  the  other  luxuries  and  appendages  of  civ 
ilized  life.  Base  wares  are  palmed  off  under  a  thousand 
disguises.  "  The  way  to  trade,"  as  a  peddler  once  told 
me,  "is  to  put  it  right  through"  no  matter  what  it  is, 
anything  that  is  agreed  on. 

"  You  grov'ling  worldlings,  you  whose  wisdom  trades 
Where  light  ne'er  shot  his  golden  ray." 

By  dint  of  able  writing  and  pen-craft,  books  are  cun 
ningly  compiled,  and  have  their  run  and  success  even 
among  the  learned,  as  if  they  were  the  result  of  a  new 
man's  thinking,  and  their  birth  were  attended  with  some 
natural  throes.  But  in  a  little  while  their  covers  fall  off, 
for  no  binding  will  avail,  and  it  appears  that  they  are 
not  Books  or  Bibles  at  all.  There  are  new  and  patented 
inventions  in  this  shape,  purporting  to  be  for  the  eleva 
tion  of  the  race,  which  many  a  pure  scholar  and  genius 
who  has  learned  to  read  is  for  a  moment  deceived  by, 
and  finds  himself  reading  a  horse-rake,  or  spinning- 
jenny,  or  wooden  nutmeg,  or  oak-leaf  cigar,  or  steam- 
power  press,  or  kitchen  range,  perchance,  when  he  was 
seeking  serene  and  biblical  truths. 


100  A  WEEK 

"Merchants,  arise, 
And  mingle  conscience  with  your  merchandise." 

Paper  is  cheap,  and  authors  need  not  now  erase  one 
book  before  they  write  another.  Instead  of  cultivating 
the  earth  for  wheat  and  potatoes,  they  cultivate  litera 
ture,  and  fill  a  place  in  the  Republic  of  Letters.  Or  they 
would  fain  write  for  fame  merely,  as  others  actually  raise 
crops  of  grain  to  be  distilled  into  brandy.  Books  are  for 
the  most  part  willfully  and  hastily  written,  as  parts  of  a 
system  to  supply  a  want  real  or  imagined.  Books  of 
natural  history  aim  commonly  to  be  hasty  schedules, 
or  inventories  of  God's  property,  by  some  clerk.  They 
do  not  in  the  least  teach  the  divine  view  of  nature,  but 
the  popular  view,  or  rather  the  popular  method  of  study 
ing  nature,  and  make  haste  to  conduct  the  persevering 
pupil  only  into  that  dilemma  where  the  professors  always 
dwell. 

"To  Athens  gowned  he  goes,  and  from  that  school 
Returns  unsped,  a  more  instructed  fool." 

They  teach  the  elements  really  of  ignorance,  not  of 
knowledge;  for,  to  speak  deliberately  and  in  view  of 
the  highest  truths,  it  is  not  easy  to  distinguish  elementary 
knowledge.  There  is  a  chasm  between  knowledge  and 
ignorance  which  the  arches  of  science  can  never  span. 
A  book  should  contain  pure  discoveries,  glimpses  of 
terra  firma,  though  by  shipwrecked  mariners,  and  not 
the  art  of  navigation  by  those  who  have  never  been  out 
of  sight  of  land.  They  must  not  yield  wheat  and  pota 
toes,  but  must  themselves  be  the  unconstrained  and 
natural  harvest  of  their  author's  lives. 


SUNDAY  101 

"What  I  have  learned  is  mine;  I've  had  my  thought, 
And  me  the  Muses  noble  truths  have  taught." 

We  do  not  learn  much  from  learned  books,  but  from 
true,  sincere,  human  books,  from  frank  and  honest 
biographies.  The  life  of  a  good  man  will  hardly  improve 
us  more  than  the  life  of  a  freebooter,  for  the  inevitable 
laws  appear  as  plainly  in  the  infringement  as  in  the 
observance,  and  our  lives  are  sustained  by  a  nearly  equal 
expense  of  virtue  of  some  kind.  The  decaying  tree,  while 
yet  it  lives,  demands  sun,  wind,  and  rain  no  less  than  the 
green  one.  It  secretes  sap  and  performs  the  functions  of 
health.  If  we  choose,  we  may  study  the  alburnum  only. 
The  gnarled  stump  has  as  tender  a  bud  as  the  sapling. 

At  least  let  us  have  healthy  books,  a  stout  horse-rake, 
or  a  kitchen  range  which  is  not  cracked.  Let  not  the  poet 
shed  tears  only  for  the  public  weal.  He  should  be  as 
vigorous  as  a  sugar  maple,  with  sap  enough  to  maintain 
his  own  verdure,  beside  what  runs  into  the  troughs,  and 
not  like  a  vine,  which  being  cut  in  the  spring  bears  no 
fruit,  but  bleeds  to  death  in  the  endeavor  to  heal  its 
wounds.  The  poet  is  he  that  hath  fat  enough,  like  bears 
and  marmots,  to  suck  his  claws  all  winter.  He  hibernates 
in  this  world,  and  feeds  on  his  own  marrow.  We  love  to 
think  in  winter,  as  we  walk  over  the  snowy  pastures,  of 
those  happy  dreamers  that  lie  under  the  sod,  of  dormice 
and  all  that  race  of  dormant  creatures,  which  have  such  a 
superfluity  of  life  enveloped  in  thick  folds  of  fur,  imper 
vious  to  cold.  Alas,  the  poet  too  is  in  one  sense  a  sort  of 
dormouse  gone  into  winter  quarters  of  deep  and  serene, 
thoughts,  insensible  to  surrounding  circumstances;  his 
words  are  the  relation  of  his  oldest  and  finest  memory, 


102  A  WEEK 

a  wisdom  drawn  from  the  remotest  experience.  Other 
men  lead  a  starved  existence,  meanwhile,  like  hawks, 
that  would  fain  keep  on  the  wing,  and  trust  to  pick  up  a 
sparrow  now  and  then. 

There  are  already  essays  and  poems,  the  growth  of 
this  land,  which  are  not  in  vain,  all  which,  however,  we 
could  conveniently  have  stowed  in  the  till  of  our  chest. 
If  the  gods  permitted  their  own  inspiration  to  be  breathed 
in  vain,  these  might  be  overlooked  in  the  crowd,  but  the 
accents  of  truth  are  as  sure  to  be  heard  at  last  on  earth 
as  in  heaven.  They  already  seem  ancient,  and  in  some 
measure  have  lost  the  traces  of  their  modern  birth. 
Here  are  they  who 

"ask  for  that  which  is  our  whole  life's  light, 
For  the  perpetual,  true,  and  clear  insight." 

I  remember  a  few  sentences  which  spring  like  the  sward 
in  its  native  pasture,  where  its  roots  were  never  dis 
turbed,  and  not  as  if  spread  over  a  sandy  embankment; 
answering  to  the  poet's  prayer,  — 

"Let  us  set  so  just 

A  rate  on  knowledge,  that  the  world  may  trust 
The  poet's  sentence,  and  not  still  aver 
Each  art  is  to  itself  a  flatterer." 

But,  above  all,  in  our  native  port,  did  we  not  frequent 
the  peaceful  games  of  the  Lyceum,  from  which  a  new  era 
will  be  dated  to  New  England,  as  from  the  games  of 
Greece.  For  if  Herodotus  carried  his  history  to  Olympia 
to  read,  after  the  cestus  and  the  race,  have  we  not  heard 
such  histories  recited  there,  which  since  our  countrymen 
have  read,  as  made  Greece  sometimes  to  be  forgotten  ? 


SUNDAY  103 

Philosophy,  too,  has  there  her  grove  and  portico,  not 
wholly  unfrequented  in  these  days. 

Lately  the  victor,  whom  all  Pindars  praised,  has  won 
another  palm,  contending  with 

"Olympian  bards  who  sung 
Divine  ideas  below, 
Which  always  find  us  young, 
And  always  keep  us  so." 

What  earth  or  sea,  mountain  or  stream,  or  Muses'  spring 
or  grove,  is  safe  from  his  all-searching,  ardent  eye,  who 
drives  off  Phoebus'  beaten  track,  visits  unwonted  zones, 
makes  the  gelid  Hyperboreans  glow,  and  the  old  polar 
serpent  writhe,  and  many  a  Nile  flow  back  and  hide  his 

head! 

That  Phaeton  of  our  day, 
Who'd  make  another  milky  way, 
And  burn  the  world  up  with  his  ray, 

By  us  an  undisputed  seer,  — 
Who'd  drive  his  flaming  car  so  near 
Unto  our  shuddering  mortal  sphere, 

Disgracing  all  our  slender  worth, 
And  scorching  up  the  living  earth, 
To  prove  his  heavenly  birth. 

The  silver  spokes,  the  golden  tire, 
Are  glowing  with  unwonted  fire, 
And  ever  nigher  roll  and  nigher; 

The  pins  and  axle  melted  are, 

The  silver  radii  fly  afar, 

Ah,  he  will  spoil  his  Father's  car! 

Who  let  him  have  the  steeds  he  cannot  steer  ? 
Henceforth  the  sun  will  not  shine  for  a  year; 
And  we  shall  Ethiops  all  appear. 


104  A  WEEK 

From  his 

"lips  of  cunning  fell 
The  thrilling  Delphic  oracle." 

And  yet,  sometimes,  — 

We  should  not  mind  if  on  our  ear  there  fell 
Some  less  of  cunning,  more  of  oracle. 

It  is  Apollo  shining  in  your  face.  O  rare  Contemporary, 
let  us  have  far-off  heats.  Give  us  the  subtler,  the  heaven- 
lier,  though  fleeting  beauty,  which  passes  through  and 
through,  and  dwells  not  in  the  verse ;  even  pure  water, 
which  but  reflects  those  tints  which  wine  wears  in  its 
grain.  Let  epic  trade-winds  blow,  and  cease  this  waltz 
of  inspirations.  Let  us  oftener  feel  even  the  gentle  south 
west  wind  upon  our  cheeks  blowing  from  the  Indian's 
heaven.  What  though  we  lose  a  thousand  meteors  from 
the  sky,  if  skyey  depths,  if  star-dust  and  undissolvable 
nebulae  remain  ?  What  though  we  lose  a  thousand  wise 
responses  of  the  oracle,  if  we  may  have  instead  some 
natural  acres  of  Ionian  earth  ? 
Though  we  know  well,  — 

"That  't  is  not  in  the  power  of  kings  [or  presidents]  to  raise 
A  spirit  for  verse  that  is  not  born  thereto, 
Nor  are  they  born  in  every  prince's  days;" 

yet  spite  of  all  they  sang  in  praise  of  their  "  Eliza's 
reign,"  we  have  evidence  that  poets  may  be  born  and 
sing  in  our  day,  in  the  presidency  of  James  K.  Polk,  — 

"And  that  the  utmost  powers  of  English  rhyme," 
Were  not  "within  her  peaceful  reign  confined." 

The  prophecy  of  the  poet  Daniel  is  already  how  much 
more  than  fulfilled! 


SUNDAY  105 

"And  who,  in  time,  knows  whither  we  may  vent 
The  treasure  of  our  tongue,  to  what  strange  shores 
This  gain  of  our  best  glory  shall  be  sent, 
T5  enrich  unknowing  nations  with  our  stores  ? 
What  worlds  in  th'  yet  unformed  Occident, 
May  come  refin'd  with  th'  accents  that  are  ours." 

Enough  has  been  said  in  these  days  of  the  charm  of 
fluent  writing.  We  hear  it  complained  of  some  works 
of  genius  that  they  have  fine  thoughts,  but  are  irregular 
and  have  no  flow.  But  even  the  mountain  peaks  in  the 
horizon  are,  to  the  eye  of  science,  parts  of  one  range. 
We  should  consider  that  the  flow  of  thought  is  more  like 
a  tidal  wave  than  a  prone  river,  and  is  the  result  of  a 
celestial  influence,  not  of  any  declivity  in  its  channel.  The 
river  flows  because  it  runs  down  hill,  and  flows  the  faster, 
the  faster  it  descends.  The  reader  who  expects  to  float 
down-stream  for  the  whole  voyage  may  well  complain  of 
nauseating  swells  and  choppings  of  the  sea  when  his  frail 
shore  craft  gets  amidst  the  billows  of  the  ocean  stream, 
which  flows  as  much  to  sun  and  moon  as  lesser  streams 
to  it.  But  if  we  would  appreciate  the  flow  that  is  in  these 
books,  we  must  expect  to  feel  it  rise  from  the  page  like  an 
exhalation,  and  wash  away  our  critical  brains  like  burr 
millstones,  flowing  to  higher  levels  above  and  behind 
ourselves.  There  is  many  a  book  which  ripples  on  like 
a  freshet,  and  flows  as  glibly  as  a  mill-stream  sucking 
under  a  causeway;  and  when  their  authors  are  in  the 
full  tide  of  their  discourse,  Pythagoras  and  Plato  and 
Jamblichus  halt  beside  them.  Their  long,  stringy,  slimy 
sentences  are  of  that  consistency  that  they  naturally  flow 
and  run  together.  They  read  as  if  written  for  military 


106  A  WEEK 

men,  for  men  of  business,  there  is  such  a  dispatch  in 
them.  Compared  with  these,  the  grave  thinkers  and 
philosophers  seem  not  to  have  got  their  swaddling- 
clothes  off;  they  are  slower  than  a  Roman  army  in  its 
march,  the  rear  camping  to-night  where  the  van  camped 
last  night.  The  wise  Jamblichus  eddies  and  gleams 
like  a  watery  slough. 

"How  many  thousands  never  heard  the  name 
Of  Sidney,  or  of  Spenser,  or  their  books  ! 
And  yet  brave  fellows,  and  presume  of  fame, 
And  seem  to  bear  down  all  the  world  with  looks  ! " 

The  ready  writer  seizes  the  pen  and  shouts,  "  Forward ! 

%      Alamo  and  Fanning!"   and  after  rolls  the  tide  of  war. 

'  The  very  walls  and  fences  seem  to  travel.   But  the  most 

rapid  trot  is  no  flow  after  all;  and  thither,  reader,  you 

and  I,  at  least,  will  not  follow. 

A  perfectly  healthy  sentence,  it  is  true,  is  extremely 
rare.  For  the  most  part  we  miss  the  hue  and  fragrance 
of  the  thought ;  as  if  we  could  be  satisfied  with  the  dews 
of  the  morning  or  evening  without  their  colors,  or  the 
heavens  without  their  azure.  The  most  attractive  sen 
tences  are,  perhaps,  not  the  wisest,  but  the  surest  and 
roundest.  They  are  spoken  firmly  and  conclusively,  as 
if  the  speaker  had  a  right  to  know  what  he  says,  and  if 
not  wise,  they  have  at  least  been  well  learned.  Sir  Walter 
Raleigh  might  well  be  studied,  if  only  for  the  excellence 
of  his  style,  for  he  is  remarkable  in  the  midst  of  so  many 
masters.  There  is  a  natural  emphasis  in  his  style,  like  a 
man's  tread,  and  a  breathing  space  between  the  sen 
tences,  which  the  best  of  modern  writing  does  not  fur 
nish.  His  chapters  are  like  English  parks,  or  say  rather 


SUNDAY  107 

like  a  Western  forest,  where  the  larger  growth  keeps 
down  the  underwood,  and  one  may  ride  on  horseback 
through  the  openings.  All  the  distinguished  writers  of 
that  period  possess  a  greater  vigor  and  naturalness  than 
the  more  modern,  —  for  it  is  allowed  to  slander  our  own 
time,  —  and  when  we  read  a  quotation  from  one  of  them 
in  the  midst  of  a  modern  author,  we  seem  to  have  come 
suddenly  upon  a  greener  ground,  a  greater  depth  and 
strength  of  soil.  It  is  as  if  a  green  bough  were  laid  across 
the  page,  and  we  are  refreshed  as  by  the  sight  of  fresh 
grass  in  midwinter  or  early  spring.  You  have  constantly 
the  warrant  of  life  and  experience  in  what  you  read. 
The  little  that  is  said  is  eked  out  by  implication  of  the 
much  that  was  done.  The  sentences  are  verdurous  and 
blooming  as  evergreen  and  flowers,  because  they  are 
rooted  in  fact  and  experience,  but  our  false  and  florid 
sentences  have  only  the  tints  of  flowers  without  their  sap 
or  roots.  All  men  are  really  most  attracted  by  the  beauty 
of  plain  speech,  and  they  even  write  in  a  florid  style  in 
imitation  of  this.  They  prefer  to  be  misunderstood  rather 
than  to  come  short  of  its  exuberance.  Hussein  Effendi 
praised  the  epistolary  style  of  Ibrahim  Pasha  to  the 
French  traveler  Botta,  because  of  "the  difficulty  of  un 
derstanding  it;  there  was,"  he  said,  "but  one  person  at 
Jidda  who  was  capable  of  understanding  and  explaining 
the  Pasha's  correspondence."  A  man's  whole  life  is  taxed 
for  the  least  thing  well  done.  It  is  its  net  result.  Every 
sentence  is  the  result  of  a  long  probation.  Where  shall 
we  look  for  standard  English  but  to  the  words  of  a 
standard  man  ?  The  word  which  is  best  said  came 
nearest  to  not  being  spoken  at  all,  for  it  is  cousin  to  a 


108  A  WEEK 

deed  which  the  speaker  could  have  better  done.  Nay, 
almost  it  must  have  taken  the  place  of  a  deed  by  some 
urgent  necessity,  even  by  some  misfortune,  so  that  the 
truest  writer  will  be  some  captive  knight,  after  all.  And 
perhaps  the  fates  had  such  a  design,  when,  having  stored 
Raleigh  so  richly  with  the  substance  of  life  and  experi 
ence,  they  made  him  a  fast  prisoner,  and  compelled  him 
to  make  his  words  his  deeds,  and  transfer  to  his  expres 
sion  the  emphasis  and  sincerity  of  his  action. 

Men  have  a  respect  for  scholarship  and  learning 
greatly  out  of  proportion  to  the  use  they  commonly 
serve.  We  are  amused  to  read  how  Ben  Jonson  engaged 
that  the  dull  masks  with  which  the  royal  family  and 
nobility  were  to  be  entertained  should  be  "grounded 
upon  antiquity  and  solid  learning."  Can  there  be  any 
greater  reproach  than  an  idle  learning  ?  Learn  to  split 
wood,  at  least.  The  necessity  of  labor  and  conversation 
with  many  men  and  things  to  the  scholar  is  rarely  well 
remembered;  steady  labor  with  the  hands,  which  en 
grosses  the  attention  also,  is  unquestionably  the  best 
method  of  removing  palaver  and  sentimentality  out  of 
one's  style,  both  of  speaking  and  writing.  If  he  has 
worked  hard  from  morning  till  night,  though  he  may 
have  grieved  that  he  could  not  be  watching  the  train 
of  his  thoughts  during  that  time,  yet  the  few  hasty  lines 
which  at  evening  record  his  day's  experience  will  be 
more  musical  and  true  than  his  freest  but  idle  fancy  could 
have  furnished.  Surely  the  writer  is  to  address  a  world  of 
laborers,  and  such  therefore  must  be  his  own  discipline. 
He  will  not  idly  dance  at  his  work  who  has  wood  to  cut 
and  cord  before  nightfall  in  the  short  days  of  winter;  but 


SUNDAY  109 

every  stroke  will  be  husbanded,  and  ring  soberly  through 
the  wood;  and  so  will  the  strokes  of  that  scholar's  pen, 
which  at  evening  record  the  story  of  the  day,  ring  soberly, 
yet  cheerily,  on  the  ear  of  the  reader,  long  after  the 
echoes  of  his  axe  have  died  away.  The  scholar  may  be 
sure  that  he  writes  the  tougher  truth  for  the  calluses  on 
his  palms.  They  give  firmness  to  the  sentence.  Indeed, 
the  mind  never  makes  a  great  and  successful  effort, 
without  a  corresponding  energy  of  the  body.  We  are 
often  struck  by  the  force  and  precision  of  style  to  which 
hard-working  men,  unpracticed  in  writing,  easily  attain 
when  required  to  make  the  effort.  As  if  plainness  and 
vigor  and  sincerity,  the  ornaments  of  style,  were  better 
learned  on  the  farm  and  in  the  workshop  than  in  the 
schools.  The  sentences  written  by  such  rude  hands  are 
nervous  and  tough,  like  hardened  thongs,  the  sinews  of 
the  deer,  or  the  roots  of  the  pine.  As  for  the  graces  of 
expression,  a  great  thought  is  never  found  in  a  mean 
dress ;  but  though  it  proceed  from  the  lips  of  the  Wolof s, 
the  nine  Muses  and  the  three  Graces  will  have  conspired 
to  clothe  it  in  fit  phrase.  Its  education  has  always  been 
liberal,  and  its  implied  wit  can  endow  a  college.  The 
world,  which  the  Greeks  called  Beauty,  has  been  made 
such  by  being  gradually  divested  of  every  ornament 
which  was  not  fitted  to  endure.  The  Sibyl,  "speaking 
with  inspired  mouth,  smileless,  inornate,  and  unper- 
fumed,  pierces  through  centuries  by  the  power  of  the 
god."  The  scholar  might  frequently  emulate  the  pro 
priety  and  emphasis  of  the  farmer's  call  to  his  team,  and 
confess  that  if  that  were  written  it  would  surpass  his 
labored  sentences.  Whose  are  the  truly  labored  sentences  ? 


110  A  WEEK 

From  the  weak  and  flimsy  periods  of  the  politician  and 
literary  man,  we  are  glad  to  turn  even  to  the  description 
of  work,  the  simple  record  of  the  month's  labor  in  the 
farmer's  almanac,  to  restore  our  tone  and  spirits.  A 
sentence  should  read  as  if  its  author,  had  he  held  a 
plow  instead  of  a  pen,  could  have  drawn  a  furrow  deep 
and  straight  to  the  end.  The  scholar  requires  hard  and 
serious  labor  to  give  an  impetus  to  his  thought.  He  will 
learn  to  grasp  the  pen  firmly  so,  and  wield  it  gracefully 
and  effectively,  as  an  axe  or  a  sword.  When  we  con 
sider  the  weak  and  nerveless  periods  of  some  literary 
men,  who  perchance  in  feet  and  inches  come  up  to  the 
standard  of  their  race,  and  are  not  deficient  in  girth 
also,  we  are  amazed  at  the  immense  sacrifice  of  thews 
and  sinews.  What!  these  proportions,  these  bones, — 
and  this  their  work!  Hands  which  could  have  felled 
an  ox  have  hewed  this  fragile  matter  which  would  not 
have  tasked  a  lady's  fingers !  Can  this  be  a  stalwart  man's 
work,  who  has  a  marrow  in  his  back  and  a  tendon 
Achilles  in  his  heel?  They  who  set  up  the  blocks  of 
Stonehenge  did  somewhat,  if  they  only  laid  out  their 
strength  for  once,  and  stretched  themselves. 

Yet,  after  all,  the  truly  efficient  laborer  will  not  crowd 
his  day  with  work,  but  will  saunter  to  his  task,  sur 
rounded  by  a  wide  halo  of  ease  and  leisure,  and  then  do 
but  what  he  loves  best.  He  is  anxious  only  about  the 
fruitful  kernels  of  time.  Though  the  hen  should  sit  all 
day,  she  could  lay  only  one  egg,  and,  besides,  would  not 
have  picked  up  materials  for  another.  Let  a  man  take 
time  enough  for  the  most  trivial  deed,  though  it  be  but 
the  paring  of  his  nails.  The  buds  swell  imperceptibly, 


SUNDAY  111 

without  hurry  or  confusion,  as  if  the  short  spring  days 
were  an  eternity. 

Then  spend  an  age  in  whetting  thy  desire, 
Thou  need'st  not  hasten  if  thou  dost  stand  fast. 

Some  hours  seem  not  to  be  occasion  for  any  deed,  but 
for  resolves  to  draw  breath  in.  We  do  not  directly  go 
about  the  execution  of  the  purpose  that  thrills  us,  but 
shut  our  doors  behind  us  and  ramble  with  prepared 
mind,  as  if  the  half  were  already  done.  Our  resolution  is 
taking  root  or  hold  on  the  earth  then,  as  seeds  first  send 
a  shoot  downward  which  is  fed  by  their  own  albumen, 
ere  they  send  one  upward  to  the  light. 

There  is  a  sort  of  homely  truth  and  naturalness  in 
some  books  which  is  very  rare  to  find,  and  yet  looks 
cheap  enough.  There  may  be  nothing  lofty  in  the  senti 
ment,  or  fine  in  the  expression,  but  it  is  careless  country 
talk.  Homeliness  is  almost  as  great  a  merit  in  a  book  as 
in  a  house,  if  the  reader  would  abide  there.  It  is  next 
to  beauty,  and  a  very  high  art.  Some  have  this  merit  only. 
The  scholar  is  not  apt  to  make  his  most  familiar  experi 
ence  come  gracefully  to  the  aid  of  his  expression.  Very 
few  men  can  speak  of  Nature,  for  instance,  with  any 
truth.  They  overstep  her  modesty,  somehow  or  other, 
and  confer  no  favor.  They  do  not  speak  a  good  word  for 
her.  Most  cry  better  than  they  speak,  and  you  can  get 
more  nature  out  of  them  by  pinching  than  by  addressing 
them.  The  surliness  with  which  the  woodchopper  speaks 
of  his  woods,  handling  them  as  indifferently  as  his  axe, 
is  better  than  the  mealy-mouthed  enthusiasm  of  the 
lover  of  nature.  Better  that  the  primrose  by  the  river's 


112  A  WEEK 

brim  be  a  yellow  primrose,  and  nothing  more,  than  that 
it  be  something  less.  Aubrey  relates  of  Thomas  Fuller 
that  his  was  "  a  very  working  head,  insomuch  that,  walk 
ing  and  meditating  before  dinner,  he  would  eat  up  a 
penny  loaf,  not  knowing  that  he  did  it.  His  natural 
memory  was  very  great,  to  which  he  added  the  art  of 
memory.  He  would  repeat  to  you  forwards  and  back 
wards  all  the  signs  from  Ludgate  to  Charing  Cross." 
He  says  of  Mr.  John  Hales,  that  "  he  loved  Canarie,"  and 
was  buried  "  under  an  altar  monument  of  black  marble 
.  .  .  with  a  too  long  epitaph;"  of  Edmund  Halley, 
that  he  "  at  sixteen  could  make  a  dial,  and  then,  he  said, 
he  thought  himself  a  brave  fellow; "  of  William  Holder, 
who  wrote  a  book  upon  his  curing  one  Popham  who  was 
deaf  and  dumb,  "he  was  beholding  to  no  author;  did 
only  consult  with  nature."  For  the  most  part,  an  author 
consults  only  with  all  who  have  written  before  him  upon 
a  subject,  and  his  book  is  but  the  advice  of  so  many.  But 
a  good  book  will  never  have  been  forestalled,  but  the 
topic  itself  will  in  one  sense  be  new,  and  its  author,  by 
consulting  with  nature,  will  consult  not  only  with  those 
who  have  gone  before,  but  with  those  who  may  come 
after.  There  is  always  room  and  occasion  enough  for  a 
true  book  on  any  subject ;  as  there  is  room  for  more  light 
the  brightest  day,  and  more  rays  will  not  interfere  with 
the  first. 

We  thus  worked  our  way  up  this  river,  gradually 
adjusting  our  thoughts  to  novelties,  beholding  from  its 
placid  bosom  a  new  nature  and  new  works  of  men,  and, 
as  it  were  with  increasing  confidence,  finding  nature 


SUNDAY  113 

still  habitable,  genial,  and  propitious  to  us ;  not  follow 
ing  any  beaten  path,  but  the  windings  of  the  river,  as 
ever  the  nearest  way  for  us.  Fortunately  we  had  no  busi 
ness  in  this  country.  The  Concord  had  rarely  been  a 
river,  or  rivus,  but  barely  fluvius,  or  between  fluvius  and 
lacus.  This  Merrimack  was  neither  rivus  nor  fluvius  nor 
lacus,  but  rather  amnis  here,  a  gently  swelling  and  stately 
rolling  flood  approaching  the  sea.  We  could  even  sym 
pathize  with  its  buoyant  tide,  going  to  seek  its  fortune 
in  the  ocean,  and,  anticipating  the  time  when  "being 
received  within  the  plain  of  its  freer  water,"  it  should 
"beat  the  shores  for  banks,"  — 

"campoque  recepta 
Liberioris  aquae,  pro  ripis  litora  pulsant." 

At  length  we  doubled  a  low  shrubby  islet,  called 
Rabbit  Island,  subjected  alternately  to  the  sun  and  to 
the  waves,  as  desolate  as  if  it  lay  some  leagues  within  the 
icy  sea,  and  found  ourselves  in  a  narrower  part  of  the 
river,  near  the  sheds  and  yards  for  picking  the  stone 
known  as  the  Chelmsford  granite,  which  is  quarried 
in  Westford  and  the  neighboring  towns.  We  passed 
Wicasuck  Island,  which  contains  seventy  acres  or  more, 
on  our  right,  between  Chelmsford  and  Tyngsborough. 
This  was  a  favorite  residence  of  the  Indians.  According 
to  the  History  of  Dunstable,  "About  1663,  the  eldest 
son  of  Passaconaway  [Chief  of  the  Penacooks]  was 
thrown  into  jail  for  a  debt  of  £45,  due  to  John  Tinker, 
by  one  of  his  tribe,  and  which  he  had  promised  verbally 
should  be  paid.  To  relieve  him  from  his  imprisonment, 
his  brother  Wannalancet  and  others,  who  owned  Wica 
suck  Island,  sold  it  and  paid  the  debt."  It  was,  however, 


114  A  WEEK 

restored  to  the  Indians  by  the  General  Court  in  1665. 
After  the  departure  of  the  Indians  in  1683,  it  was  granted 
to  Jonathan  Tyng  in  payment  for  his  services  to  the 
colony,  in  maintaining  a  garrison  at  his  house.  Tyng's 
house  stood  not  far  from  Wicasuck  Falls.  Gookin,  who, 
in  his  Epistle  Dedicatory  to  Robert  Boyle,  apologizes 
for  presenting  his  "  matter  clothed  in  a  wilderness  dress," 
says  that,  on  the  breaking  out  of  Philip's  war  in  1675, 
there  were  taken  up  by  the  Christian  Indians  and  the 
English  in  Marlborough,  and  sent  to  Cambridge,  seven 
"  Indians  belonging  to  Narragansett,  Long  Island,  and 
Pequod,  who  had  all  been  at  work  about  seven  weeks 
with  one  Mr.  Jonathan  Tyng,  of  Dunstable,  upon  Mer- 
rimack  River;  and,  hearing  of  the  war,  they  reckoned 
with  their  master,  and  getting  their  wages,  conveyed 
themselves  away  without  his  privity,  and,  being  afraid, 
marched  secretly  through  the  woods,  designing  to  go  to 
their  own  country."  However,  they  were  released  soon 
after.  Such  were  the  hired  men  in  those  days.  Tyng  was 
the  first  permanent  settler  of  Dunstable,  which  then 
embraced  what  is  now  Tyngsborough  and  many  other 
towns.  In  the  winter  of  1675,  in  Philip's  war,  every  other 
settler  left  the  town,  but  "he,"  says  the  historian  of 
Dunstable,  "fortified  his  house;  and,  although  *  obliged 
to  send  to  Boston  for  his  food/  sat  himself  down  in  the 
midst  of  his  savage  enemies,  alone,  in  the  wilderness, 
to  defend  his  home.  Deeming  his  position  an  important 
one  for  the  defense  of  the  frontiers,  in  February,  1676, 
he  petitioned  the  Colony  for  aid,"  humbly  showing,  as 
his  petition  runs,  that,  as  he  lived  "in  the  uppermost 
house  on  Merrimac  river,  lying  open  to  ye  enemy,  yet 


SUNDAY  115 

being  so  seated  that  it  is,  as  it  were,  a  watch-house  to  the 
neighboring  towns,"  he  could  render  important  service 
to  his  country  if  only  he  had  some  assistance,  "there 
being,"  he  said,  "never  an  inhabitant  left  in  the  town 
but  myself."  Wherefore  he  requests  that  their  "  Honors 
would  be  pleased  to  order  him  three  or  Jour  men  to  help 
garrison  his  said  house,"  which  they  did.  But  methinks 
that  such  a  garrison  would  be  weakened  by  the  addition 
of  a  man. 

"Make  bandog  thy  scout  watch  to  bark  at  a  thief, 
Make  courage  for  life,  to  be  capitain  chief; 
Make  trap-door  thy  bulwark,  make  bell  to  begin, 
Make  gunstone  and  arrow  show  who  is  within." 

Thus  he  earned  the  title  of  first  permanent  settler.  In 
1694  a  law  was  passed  "that  every  settler  who  deserted 
a  town  for  fear  of  the  Indians  should  forfeit  all  his  rights 
therein."  But  now,  at  any  rate,  as  I  have  frequently 
observed,  a  man  may  desert  the  fertile  frontier  territories 
of  truth  and  justice,  which  are  the  State's  best  lands,  for 
fear  of  far  more  insignificant  foes,  without  forfeiting 
any  of  his  civil  rights  therein.  Nay,  townships  are 
granted  to  deserters,  and  the  General  Court,  as  I  am 
sometimes  inclined  to  regard  it,  is  but  a  deserters'  camp 
itself. 

As  we  rowed  along  near  the  shore  of  Wicasuck  Island, 
which  was  then  covered  with  wood,  in  order  to  avoid  the 
current,  two  men,  who  looked  as  if  they  had  just  run  out 
of  Lowell,  where  they  had  been  waylaid  by  the  Sabbath, 
meaning  to  go  to  Nashua,  and  who  now  found  themselves 
in  the  strange,  natural,  uncultivated,  and  unsettled  part 
of  the  globe  which  intervenes,  full  of  walls  and  barriers, 


116  A  WEEK 

a  rough  and  uncivil  place  to  them,  seeing  our  boat  mov 
ing  so  smoothly  up  the  stream,  called  out  from  the  high 
bank  above  our  heads  to  know  if  we  would  take  them 
as  passengers,  as  if  this  were  the  street  they  had  missed; 
that  they  might  sit  and  chat  and  drive  away  the  time, 
and  so  at  last  find  themselves  in  Nashua.  This  smooth 
way  they  much  preferred.  But  our  boat  was  crowded 
with  necessary  furniture,  and  sunk  low  in  the  water, 
and  moreover  required  to  be  worked,  for  even  it  did  not 
progress  against  the  stream  without  effort;  so  we  were 
obliged  to  deny  them  passage.  As  we  glided  away  with 
even  sweeps,  while  the  fates  scattered  oil  in  our  course, 
the  sun  now  sinking  behind  the  alders  on  the  distant 
shore,  we  could  still  see  them  far  off  over  the  water,  run 
ning  along  the  shore  and  climbing  over  the  rocks  and 
fallen  trees  like  insects,  —  for  they  did  not  know  any 
better  than  we  that  they  were  on  an  island,  —  the  unsym- 
pathizing  river  ever  flowing  in  an  opposite  direction; 
until,  having  reached  the  entrance  of  the  island  brook, 
which  they  had  probably  crossed  upon  the  locks  below, 
they  found  a  more  effectual  barrier  to  their  progress. 
They  seemed  to  be  learning  much  in  a  little  time.  They 
ran  about  like  ants  on  a  burning  brand,  and  once  more 
they  tried  the  river  here,  and  once  more  there,  to  see  if 
water  still  indeed  was  not  to  be  walked  on,  as  if  a  new 
thought  inspired  them,  and  by  some  peculiar  disposition 
of  the  limbs  they  could  accomplish  it.  At  length  sober 
common  sense  seemed  to  have  resumed  its  sway,  and 
they  concluded  that  what  they  had  so  long  heard  must 
be  true,  and  resolved  to  ford  the  shallower  stream. 
When  nearly  a  mile  distant  we  could  see  them  stripping 


SUNDAY  117 

off  their  clothes  and  preparing  for  this  experiment;  yet 
it  seemed  likely  that  a  new  dilemma  would  arise,  they 
were  so  thoughtlessly  throwing  away  their  clothes  on  the 
wrong  side  of  the  stream,  as  in  the  case  of  the  country 
man  with  his  corn,  his  fox,  and  his  goose,  which  had  to 
be  transported  one  at  a  time.  Whether  they  got  safely 
through,  or  went  round  by  the  locks,  we  never  learned. 
We  could  not  help  being  struck  by  the  seeming,  though 
innocent,  indifference  of  Nature  to  these  men's  neces 
sities,  while  elsewhere  she  was  equally  serving  others. 
Like  a  true  benefactress,  the  secret  of  her  service  is  un- 
changeableness.  Thus  is  the  busiest  merchant,  though 
within  sight  of  his  Lowell,  put  to  pilgrim's  shifts,  and 
soon  comes  to  staff  and  scrip  and  scallop-shell. 

We,  too,  who  held  the  middle  of  the  stream,  came 
near  experiencing  a  pilgrim's  fate,  being  tempted  to 
pursue  what  seemed  a  sturgeon  or  larger  fish,  for  we 
remembered  that  this  was  the  Sturgeon  River,  its  dark 
and  monstrous  back  alternately  rising  and  sinking  in 
midstream.  We  kept  falling  behind,  but  the  fish  kept 
his  back  well  out,  and  did  not  dive,  and  seemed  to  prefer 
to  swim  against  the  stream,  so,  at  any  rate,  he  would 
not  escape  us  by  going  out  to  sea.  At  length,  having  got 
as  near  as  was  convenient,  and  looking  out  not  to  get 
a  blow  from  his  tail,  now  the  bow-gunner  delivered  his 
charge,  while  the  stern-man  held  his  ground.  But  the 
halibut-skinned  monster,  in  one  of  these  swift-gliding 
pregnant  moments,  without  ever  ceasing  his  bobbing,  up 
and  down,  saw  fit,  without  a  chuckle  or  other  prelude,  to 
proclaim  himself  a  huge  imprisoned  spar,  placed  there 
as  a  buoy,  to  warn  sailors  of  sunken  rocks.  So,  each 


118  A  WEEK 

casting  some  blame  upon  the  other,  we  withdrew  quickly 
to  safer  waters. 

The  Scene-shifter  saw  fit  here  to  close  the  drama  of 
this  day  without  regard  to  any  unities  which  we  mortals 
prize.  Whether  it  might  have  proved  tragedy,  or  com 
edy,  or  tragi-comedy,  or  pastoral,  we  cannot  tell.  This 
Sunday  ended  by  the  going  down  of  the  sun,  leaving  us 
still  on  the  waves.  But  they  who  are  on  the  water  enjoy 
a  longer  and  brighter  twilight  than  they  who  are  on  the 
land,  for  here  the  water,  as  well  as  the  atmosphere, 
absorbs  and  reflects  the  light,  and  some  of  the  day  seems 
to  have  sunk  down  into  the  waves.  The  light  gradually 
forsook  the  deep  water,  as  well  as  the  deeper  air,  and 
the  gloaming  came  to  the  fishes  as  well  as  to  us,  and 
more  dim  and  gloomy  to  them,  whose  day  is  a  perpetual 
twilight,  though  sufficiently  bright  for  their  weak  and 
watery  eyes.  Vespers  had  already  rung  in  many  a  dim 
and  watery  chapel  down  below,  where  the  shadows  of 
the  weeds  were  extended  in  length  over  the  sandy  floor. 
The  vespertinal  pout  had  already  begun  to  flit  on 
leathern  fin,  and  the  finny  gossips  withdrew  from  the 
fluvial  street  to  creeks  and  coves,  and  other  private 
haunts,  excepting  a  few  of  stronger  fin,  which  anchored 
in  the  stream,  stemming  the  tide  even  in  their  dreams. 
Meanwhile,  like  a  dark  evening  cloud,  we  were  wafted 
over  the  cope  of  their  sky,  deepening  the  shadows  on 
their  deluged  fields. 

Having  reached  a  retired  part  of  the  river  where  it 
spread  out  to  sixty  rods  in  width,  we  pitched  our  tent  on 
the  east  side,  in  Tyngsborough,  just  above  some  patches 
of  the  beach  plum,  which  was  now  nearly  ripe,  where  the 


SUNDAY  119 

sloping  bank  was  a  sufficient  pillow,  and  with  the  bustle 
of  sailors  making  the  land,  we  transferred  such  stores  as 
were  required  from  boat  to  tent,  and  hung  a  lantern  to 
the  tent-pole,  and  so  our  house  was  ready.  With  a  buffalo 
spread  on  the  grass,  and  a  blanket  for  our  covering, 
our  bed  was  soon  made.  A  fire  crackled  merrily  before 
the  entrance,  so  near  that  we  could  tend  it  without  step 
ping  abroad,  and  when  we  had  supped,  we  put  out  the 
blaze,  and  closed  the  door,  and  with  the  semblance  of 
domestic  comfort,  sat  up  to  read  the  Gazetteer,  to  learn 
our  latitude  and  longitude,  and  write  the  journal  of  the 
voyage,  or  listened  to  the  wind  and  the  rippling  of  the 
river  till  sleep  overtook  us.  There  we  lay  under  an 
oak  on  the  bank  of  the  stream,  near  to  some  farmer's 
cornfield,  getting  sleep,  and  forgetting  where  we  were;  a 
great  blessing,  that  we  are  obliged  to  forget  our  enter 
prises  every  twelve  hours.  Minks,  muskrats,  meadow 
mice,  woodchucks,  squirrels,  skunks,  rabbits,  foxes,  and 
weasels,  all  inhabit  near,  but  keep  very  close  while  you 
are  there.  The  river  sucking  and  eddying  away  all  night 
down  toward  the  marts  and  the  seaboard,  a  great  wash 
and  freshet,  and  no  small  enterprise  to  reflect  on.. 
Instead  of  the  Scythian  vastness  of  the  Billerica  night, 
and  its  wild  musical  sounds,  we  were  kept  awake  by  the 
boisterous  sport  of  some  Irish  laborers  on  the  railroad, 
wafted  to  us  over  the  water,  still  unwearied  and  unrest 
ing  on  this  seventh  day,  who  would  not  have  done  with 
whirling  up  and  down  the  track  with  ever-increasing 
velocity  and  still  reviving  shouts,  till  late  in  the  night. 
One  sailor  was  visited  in  his  dreams  this  night  by  the 
Evil  Destinies,  and  all  those  powers  that  are  hostile 


120  A  WEEK 

to  human  life,  which  constrain  and  oppress  the  minds 
of  men,  and  make  their  path  seem  difficult  and  narrow, 
and  beset  with  dangers,  so  that  the  most  innocent  and 
worthy  enterprises  appear  insolent  and  a  tempting  of 
fate,  and  the  gods  go  not  with  us.  But  the  other  happily 
passed  a  serene  and  even  ambrosial  or  immortal  night, 
and  his  sleep  was  dreamless,  or  only  the  atmosphere  of 
pleasant  dreams  remained,  a  happy,  natural  sleep  until 
the  morning;  and  his  cheerful  spirit  soothed  and  reas 
sured  his  brother,  for  whenever  they  meet,  the  Good 
Genius  is  sure  to  prevail. 


MONDAY 

I  thynke  for  to  louche  also 

The  worlde  whiche  neweth  everie  daie, 

So  as  I  can,  so  as  I  male.  —  GOWEB. 

The  hye  sheryf e  of  Notynghame, 
Hym  holde  in  your  mynde.  —  Robin  Hood  Ballads. 

His  shoote  it  was  but  loosely  short, 

Yet  flewe  not  the  arrowe  in  vaine, 
For  it  mett  one  of  the  sheriffe's  men, 

And  William  a  Trent  was  slaine. 

Robin  Hood  Ballads. 

Gazed  on  the  Heavens  for  what  he  missed  on  Earth. 

Britannia's  Pastorals. 

HEN  the  first  light  dawned  on  the  earth,  and  the 
birds  awoke,  and  the  brave  river  was  heard  rippling 
confidently  seaward,  and  the  nimble  early  rising  wind 
rustled  the  oak  leaves  about  our  tent,  all  men,  having 
reinforced  their  bodies  and  their  souls  with  sleep,  and 
cast  aside  doubt  and  fear,  were  invited  to  unattempted 
adventures. 

"All  courageous  knichtis 
Agains  the  day  dichtis 
The  breest-plate  that  bricht  is, 
To  f  eght  with  their  f  oue. 

The  stoned  steed  stampis 
Throw  curage  and  crampis, 
Syne  on  the  land  lampis; 

The  night  is  neir  gone." 


122  A  WEEK 

One  of  us  took  the  boat  over  to  the  opposite  shore, 
which  was  flat  and  accessible,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  dis 
tant,  to  empty  it  of  water  and  wash  out  the  clay,  while 
the  other  kindled  a  fire  and  got  breakfast  ready.  At  an 
early  hour  we  were  again  on  our  way,  rowing  through 
the  fog  as  before,  the  river  already  awake,  and  a  million 
crisped  waves  come  forth  to  meet  the  sun  when  he  should 
show  himself.  The  countrymen,  recruited  by  their  day 
of  rest,  were  already  stirring,  and  had  begun  to  cross  the 
ferry  on  the  business  of  the  week.  This  ferry  was  as  busy 
as  a  beaver  dam,  and  all  the  world  seemed  anxious  to  get 
across  the  Merrimack  River  at  this  particular  point, 
waiting  to  get  set  over,  —  children  with  their  two  cents 
done  up  in  paper,  jail-birds  broke  loose  and  constable 
with  warrant,  travelers  from  distant  lands  to  distant 
lands,  men  and  women  to  whom  the  Merrimack  River 
was  a  bar.  There  stands  a  gig  in  the  gray  morning,  in 
the  mist,  the  impatient  traveler  pacing  the  wet  shore 
with  whip  in  hand,  and  shouting  through  the  fog  after 
the  regardless  Charon  and  his  retreating  ark,  as  if  he 
might  throw  that  passenger  overboard  and  return 
forthwith  for  himself;  he  will  compensate  him.  He 
is  to  break  his  fast  at  some  unseen  place  on  the  oppo 
site  side.  It  may  be  Ledyard  or  the  Wandering  Jew. 
Whence,  pray,  did  he  come  out  of  the  foggy  night  ?  and 
whither  through  the  sunny  day  will  he  go  ?  We  observe 
only  his  transit;  important  to  us,  forgotten  by  him, 
transiting  all  day.  There  are  two  of  them.  Maybe 
they  are  Virgil  and  Dante.  But  when  they  crossed  the 
Styx,  none  were  seen  bound  up  or  down  the  stream,  that 
I  remember.  It  is  only  a  transjectus,  a  transitory  voyage, 


MONDAY  123 

like  life  itself,  none  but  the  long-lived  gods  bound  up  or 
down  the  stream.  Many  of  these  Monday  men  are 
ministers,  no  doubt,  reseeking  their  parishes  with  hired 
horses,  with  sermons  in  their  valises  all  read  and  gutted, 
the  day  after  never  with  them.  They  cross  each  other's 
routes  all  the  country  over  like  woof  and  warp,  making 
a  garment  of  loose  texture;  vacation  now  for  six  days. 
They  stop  to  pick  nuts  and  berries,  and  gather  apples, 
by  the  wayside  at  their  leisure.  Good  religious  men, 
with  the  love  of  men  in  their  hearts,  and  the  means  to 
pay  their  toll  in  their  pockets.  We  got  over  this  ferry 
chain  without  scraping,  rowing  athwart  the  tide  of  travel, 
—  no  toll  for  us  that  day. 

The  fog  dispersed,  and  we  rowed  leisurely  along 
through  Tyngsborough,  with  a  clear  sky  and  a  mild 
atmosphere,  leaving  the  habitations  of  men  behind, 
and  penetrating  yet  farther  into  the  territory  of  ancient 
Dunstable.  It  was  from  Dunstable,  then  a  frontier 
town,  that  the  famous  Captain  Lovewell,  with  his  com 
pany,  marched  in  quest  of  the  Indians  on  the  18th  of 
April,  1725.  He  was  the  son  of  "an  ensign  in  the  army 
of  Oliver  Cromwell,  who  came  to  this  country,  and  set 
tled  at  Dunstable,  where  he  died  at  the  great  age  of  one 
hundred  and  twenty  years."  In  the  words  of  the  old 
nursery  tale,  sung  about  a  hundred  years  ago,  — 

"He  and  his  valiant  soldiers  did  range  the  woods  full  wide, 
And  hardships  they  endured  to  quell  the  Indian's  pride." 

In  the  shaggy  pine  forest  of  Pequawket  they  met  the 
"  rebel  Indians,"  and  prevailed,  after  a  bloody  fight,  and 
a  remnant  returned  home  to  enjoy  the  fame  of  their 
victory.  A  township  called  Lovewell's  Town,  but  now, 


124  A  WEEK 

for  some  reason,  or  perhaps  without  reason,  Pembroke, 
was  granted  them  by  the  State. 

"Of  all  our  valiant  English,  there  were  but  thirty-four, 
And  of  the  rebel  Indians,  there  were  about  four-score; 
And  sixteen  of  our  English  did  safely  home  return, 
The  rest  were  killed  and  wounded,  for  which  we  all  must  mourn. 

"  Our  worthy  Capt.  Lovewell  among  them  there  did  die, 
They  killed  Lieut.  Robbins,  and  wounded  good  young  Frye, 
Who  was  our  English  Chaplin;   he  many  Indians  slew, 
And  some  of  them  he  scalped  while  bullets  round  him  flew." 

Our  brave  forefathers  have  exterminated  all  the  In 
dians,  and  their  degenerate  children  no  longer  dwell  in 
garrisoned  houses  nor  hear  any  war-whoop  in  their  path. 
It  would  be  well,  perchance,  if  many  an  "  English  Chap 
lin  "  in  these  days  could  exhibit  as  unquestionable  tro 
phies  of  his  valor  as  did  "good  young  Frye."  We  have 
need  to  be  as  sturdy  pioneers  still  as  Miles  Standish,  or 
Church,  or  Lovewell.  We  are  to  follow  on  another  trail, 
it  is  true,  but  one  as  convenient  for  ambushes.  What 
if  the  Indians  are  exterminated,  are  not  savages  as  grim 
prowling  about  the  clearings  to-day? 

"And  braving  many  dangers  and  hardships  in  the  way, 
They  safe  arrived  at  Dunstable  the  thirteenth  (?)  day  of  May." 

But  they  did  not  all  "safe  arrive  in  Dunstable  the 
thirteenth,"  or  the  fifteenth,  or  the  thirtieth  "day  of 
May."  Eleazer  Davis  and  Josiah  Jones,  both  of  Con 
cord,  — for  our  native  town  had  seven  men  in  this  fight, 
—  Lieutenant  Farwell,  of  Dunstable,  and  Jonathan  Frye, 
of  Andover,  who  were  all* wounded,  were  left  behind, 
creeping  toward  the  settlements.  "After  traveling  sev- 


MONDAY  125 

eral  miles,  Frye  was  left  and  lost,"  though  a  more  recent 
poet  has  assigned  him  company  in  his  last  hours. 

"A  man  he  was  of  comely  form, 

Polished  and  brave,  well  learned  and  kind; 
Old  Harvard's  learned  halls  he  left 
Far  in  the  wilds  a  grave  to  find. 

"Ah!  now  his  blood-red  arm  he  lifts; 

His  closing  lids  he  tries  to  raise; 
And  speak  once  more  before  he  dies, 
In  supplication  and  in  praise. 

"He  prays  kind  Heaven  to  grant  success, 

Brave  Lovewell's  men  to  guide  and  bless, 
And  when  they  've  shed  their  heart-blood  true, 
To  raise  them  all  to  happiness. 


"Lieutenant  Farwell  took  his  hand, 

His  arm  around  his  neck  he  threw, 
And  said,  'Brave  Chaplain,  I  could  wish 
That  Heaven  had  made  me  die  for  you." 

Farwell  held  out  eleven  days.  "  A  tradition  says," 
as  we  learn  from  the  History  of  Concord,  "  that  arriving 
at  a  pond  with  Lieut.  Farwell,  Davis  pulled  off  one  of 
his  moccasins,  cut  it  in  strings,  on  which  he  fastened  a 
hook,  caught  some  fish,  fried  and  ate  them.  They  re 
freshed  him,  but  were  injurious  to  Farwell,  who  died 
soon  after."  Davis  had  a  ball  lodged  in  his  body,  and 
his  right  hand  shot  off;  but  on  the  whole,  he  seems  to 
have  been  less  damaged  than  his  companions.  He  came 
into  Berwick  after  being  out  fourteen  days.  Jones  also 
had  a  ball  lodged  in  his  body,  but  he  likewise  got  into 
Saco  after  fourteen  days,  though  not  in  the  best  condi- 


126  A  WEEK 

tion  imaginable.  "  He  had  subsisted,"  says  an  old  jour 
nal,  "on  the  spontaneous  vegetables  of  the  forest;  and 
cranberries  which  he  had  eaten  came  out  of  wounds  he 
had  received  in  his  body."  This  was  also  the  case  with 
Davis.  The  last  two  reached  home  at  length,  safe  if  not 
sound,  and  lived  many  years  in  a  crippled  state  to  enjoy 
their  pension. 

^/     But  alas!  of  the  crippled  Indians,  and  their  adven 
tures  in  the  woods, — 

"For  as  we  are  informed,  so  thick  and  fast  they  fell, 
Scarce  twenty  of  their  number  at  night  did  get  home  well,"  — 

how  many  balls  lodged  with  them,  how  fared  their  cran 
berries,  what  Berwick  or  Saco  they  got  into,  and  finally 
what  pension  or  township  was  granted  them,  there  is  no 
journal  to  tell. 

It  is  stated  in  the  History  of  Dunstable  that  just  be 
fore  his  last  march,  Lovewell  was  warned  to  beware  of 
the  ambuscades  of  the  enemy,  but  "he  replied,  'that 
he  did  not  care  for  them,'  and  bending  down  a  small 
elm  beside  which  he  was  standing  into  a  bow,  declared 
'that  he  would  treat  the  Indians  in  the  same  way.'  This 
elm  is  still  standing  [in  Nashua],  a  venerable  and  mag 
nificent  tree." 

Meanwhile,  having  passed  the  Horseshoe  Interval 
in  Tyngsborough,  where  the  river  makes  a  sudden  bend 
to  the  northwest,  —  for  our  reflections  have  anticipated 
our  progress  somewhat,  —  we  were  advancing  farther 
into  the  country  and  into  the  day,  which  last  proved  al 
most  as  golden  as  the  preceding,  though  the  slight  bustle 
and  activity  of  the  Monday  seemed  to  penetrate  even 


MONDAY  127 

to  this  scenery.  Now  and  then  we  had  to  muster  all  our 
energy  to  get  round  a  point,  where  the  river  broke  rip 
pling  over  rocks,  and  the  maples  trailed  their  branches 
in  the  stream,  but  there  was  generally  a  backwater  or 
eddy  on  the  side,  of  which  we  took  advantage.  The 
river  was  here  about  forty  rods  wide  and  fifteen  feet 
deep.  Occasionally  one  ran  along  the  shore,  examin 
ing  the  country,  and  visiting  the  nearest  farmhouses, 
while  the  other  followed  the  windings  of  the  stream 
alone,  to  meet  his  companion  at  some  distant  point, 
and  hear  the  report  of  his  adventures ;  how  the  farmer 
praised  the  coolness  of  his  well,  and  his  wife  offered  the 
stranger  a  draught  of  milk,  or  the  children  quarreled 
for  the  only  transparency  in  the  window  that  they  might 
get  sight  of  the  man  at  the  well.  For  though  the  country 
seemed  so  new,  and  no  house  was  observed  by  us,  shut 
in  between  the  banks  that  sunny  day,  we  did  not  have 
to  travel  far  to  find  where  men  inhabited,  like  wild  bees, 
and  had  sunk  wells  in  the  loose  sand  and  loam  of  the 
Merrimack.  There  dwelt  the  subject  of  the  Hebrew 
scriptures,  and  the  Esprit  des  Lois,  where  a  thin,  vapor 
ous  smoke  curled  up  through  the  noon.  All  that  is  told 
of  mankind,  of  the  inhabitants  of  the  Upper  Nile,  and 
the  Sunderbunds,  and  Timbuctoo,  and  the  Orinoko, 
was  experience  here.  Every  race  and  class  of  men  was 
represented.  According  to  Belknap,  the  historian  of 
New  Hampshire,  who  wrote  sixty  years  ago,  here  too, 
perchance,  dwelt  "new  lights"  and  free-thinking  men 
even  then.  "The  people  in  general  throughout  the 
State,"  it  is  written,  "  are  professors  of  the  Christian  re 
ligion  in  some  form  or  other.  There  is,  however,  a  sort 


128  A  WEEK 

of  wise  men  who  pretend  to  reject  it;  but  they  have  not 
yet  been  able  to  substitute  a  better  in  its  place." 

The  other  voyageur,  perhaps,  would  in  the  mean 
while  have  seen  a  brown  hawk,  or  a  woodchuck,  or  a 
musquash  creeping  under  the  alders. 

We  occasionally  rested  in  the  shade  of  a  maple  or  a 
willow,  and  drew  forth  a  melon  for  our  refreshment, 
while  we  contemplated  at  our  leisure  the  lapse  of  the 
river  and  of  human  life;  and  as  that  current,  with  its 
floating  twigs  and  leaves,  so  did  all  things  pass  in  re 
view  before  us,  while  far  away  in  cities  and  marts  on 
this  very  stream,  the  old  routine  was  proceeding  still. 
There  is,  indeed,  a  tide  in  the  affairs  of  men,  as  the  poet 
says,  and  yet  as  things  flow  they  circulate,  and  the  ebb 
always  balances  the  flow.  All  streams  are  but  tributary 
to  the  ocean,  which  itself  does  not  stream,  and  the  shores 
are  unchanged,  but  in  longer  periods  than  man  can 
measure.  Go  where  we  will,  we  discover  infinite  change 
in  particulars  only,  not  in  generals.  When  I  go  into  a 
museum  and  see  the  mummies  wrapped  in  their  linen 
bandages,  I  see  that  the  lives  of  men  began  to  need  re 
form  as  long  ago  as  when  they  walked  the  earth.  I  come 
out  into  the  streets,  and  meet  men  who  declare  that  the 
time  is  near  at  hand  for  the  redemption  of  the  race.  But 
as  men  lived  in  Thebes,  so  do  they  live  in  Dunstable  to 
day.  "  Time  drinketh  up  the  essence  of  every  great  and 
noble  action  which  ought  to  be  performed,  and  is  de 
layed  in  the  execution."  So  says  Veeshnoo  Sarma;  and 
we  perceive  that  the  schemers  return  again  and  again 
to  common  sense  and  labor.  Such  is  the  evidence  of 
history. 


MONDAY  129 

"Yet  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose  runs, 
And  the  thoughts  of  men  are  widened  with  the  process  of  the  Suns." 

There  are  secret  articles  in  our  treaties  with  the  gods, 
of  more  importance  than  all  the  rest,  which  the  historian 
can  never  know. 

There  are  many  skillful  apprentices,  but  few  master 
workmen.  On  every  hand  we  observe  a  truly  wise  prac 
tice,  in  education,  in  morals,  and  in  the  arts  of  life,  the 
embodied  wisdom  of  many  an  ancient  philosopher.  Who 
does  not  see  that  heresies  have  some  time  prevailed, 
that  reforms  have  already  taken  place  ?  All  this  worldly 
wisdom  might  be  regarded  as  the  once  unamiable  heresy 
of  some  wise  man.  Some  interests  have  got  a  footing  on 
the  earth  which  we  have  not  made  sufficient  allowance 
for.  Even  they  who  first  built  these  barns  and  cleared 
the  land  thus,  had  some  valor.  The  abrupt  epochs  and 
chasms  are  smoothed  down  in  history  as  the  inequalities 
of  the  plain  are  concealed  by  distance.  But  unless  we  / 
do  more  than  simply  learn  the  trade  of  our  time,  we 
are  but  apprentices,  and  not  yet  masters  of  the  art  of 
life. 

Now  that  we  are  casting  away  these  melon  seeds, 
how  can  we  help  feeling  reproach?  He  who  eats  the 
fruit  should  at  least  plant  the  seed;  ay,  if  possible,  a 
better  seed  than  that  whose  fruit  he  has  enjoyed.  Seeds, 
there  are  seeds  enough  which  need  only  be  stirred  in 
with  the  soil  where  they  lie,  by  an  inspired  voice  or  pen, 
to  bear  fruit  of  a  divine  flavor.  O  thou  spendthrift! 
Defray  thy  debt  to  the  world;  eat  not  the  seed  of  in 
stitutions,  as  the  luxurious  do,  but  plant  it  rather,  while 
thou  devourest  the  pulp  and  tuber  for  thy  subsistence; 


130  A  WEEK 

that  so,  perchance,  one  variety  may  at  last  be  found 
worthy  of  preservation. 

There  are  moments  when  all  anxiety  and  stated  toil 
are  becalmed  in  the  infinite  leisure  and  repose  of  na 
ture.  All  laborers  must  have  their  nooning,  and  at  this 
season  of  the  day,  we  are  all,  more  or  less,  Asiatics,  and 
give  over  all  work  and  reform.  While  lying  thus  on  our 
oars  by  the  side  of  the  stream,  in  the  heat  of  the  day, 
our  boat  held  by  an  osier  put  through  the  staple  in 
its  prow,  and  slicing  the  melons,  which  are  a  fruit  of 
the  East,  our  thoughts  reverted  to  Arabia,  Persia,  and 
Hindostan,  the  lands  of  contemplation  and  dwelling- 
places  of  the  ruminant  nations.  In  the  experience  of 
this  noontide  we  could  find  some  apology  even  for 
the  instinct  of  the  opium,  betel,  and  tobacco  chewers. 
Mount  Saber,  according  to  the  French  traveler  and 
naturalist  Botta,  is  celebrated  for  producing  the  Kat- 
tree,  of  which  "the  soft  tops  of  the  twigs  and  tender 
leaves  are  eaten,"  says  his  reviewer,  "and  produce  an 
agreeable  soothing  excitement,  restoring  from  fatigue, 
banishing  sleep,  and  disposing  to  the  enjoyment  of  con 
versation."  We  thought  that  we  might  lead  a  dignified 
Oriental  life  along  this  stream  as  well,  and  the  maple 
and  alders  would  be  our  Kat-trees. 

It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  escape  sometimes  from  the 
restless  class  of  Reformers.  What  if  these  grievances 
exist  ?  So  do  you  and  I.  Think  you  that  sitting  hens  are 
troubled  with  ennui  these  long  summer  days,  sitting  on 
and  on  in  the  crevice  of  a  hay-loft,  without  active  em 
ployment  ?  By  the  faint  cackling  in  distant  barns,  I  judge 
that  Dame  Nature  is  interested  still  to  know  how  many 


MONDAY  131 

eggs  her  hens  lay.  The  Universal  Soul,  as  it  is  called, 
has  an  interest  in  the  stacking  of  hay,  the  foddering  of 
cattle,  and  the  draining  of  peat-meadows.  Away  in 
Scythia,  away  in  India,  it  makes  butter  and  cheese. 
Suppose  that  all  farms  are  run  out,  and  we  youths  must 
buy  old  land  and  bring  it  to,  still  everywhere  the  re 
lentless  opponents  of  reform  bear  a  strange  resemblance 
to  ourselves;  or,  perchance,  they  are  a  few  old  maids 
and  bachelors,  who  sit  round  the  kitchen  hearth  and 
listen  to  the  singing  of  the  kettle.  "  The  oracles  often 
give  victory  to  our  choice,  and  not  to  the  order  alone  of 
the  mundane  periods.  As,  for  instance,  when  they  say 
that  our  voluntary  sorrows  germinate  in  us  as  the  growth 
of  the  particular  life  we  lead."  The  reform  which  you 
talk  about  can  be  undertaken  any  morning  before  un 
barring  our  doors.  We  need  not  call  any  convention. 
When  two  neighbors  begin  to  eat  corn  bread,  who  be 
fore  ate  wheat,  then  the  gods  smile  from  ear  to  ear,  for 
it  is  very  pleasant  to  them.  Why  do  you  not  try  it? 
Don't  let  me  hinder  you. 

There  are  theoretical  reformers  at  all  times,  and  all 
the  world  over,  living  on  anticipation.  Wolff,  traveling 
in  the  deserts  of  Bokhara,  says,  "  Another  party  of 
derveeshes  came  to  me  and  observed,  'The  time  will 
come  when  there  shall  be  no  difference  between  rich 
and  poor,  between  high  and  low,  when  property  will  be 
in  common,  even  wives  and  children.' "  But  forever  I 
ask  of  such,  What  then  ?  The  derveeshes  in  the  deserts 
of  Bokhara  and  the  reformers  in  Marlboro'  Chapel 
sing  the  same  song.  "There's  a  good  time  coming, 
boys,"  but,  asked  one  of  the  audience,  in  good  faith, 


132  A  WEEK 

"Can  you  fix  the  date?"  Said  I,  "Will  you  help  it 
along?" 

The  nonchalance  and  dolce-far-niente  air  of  nature 
and  society  hint  at  infinite  periods  in  the  progress  of 
mankind.  The  States  have  leisure  to  laugh  from  Maine 
to  Texas  at  some  newspaper  joke,  and  New  England 
shakes  at  the  double-entendres  of  Australian  circles, 
while  the  poor  reformer  cannot  get  a  hearing. 

Men  do  not  fail  commonly  for  want  of  knowledge, 
but  for  want  of  prudence  to  give  wisdom  the  preference. 
What  we  need  to  know  in  any  case  is  very  simple.  It 
is  but  too  easy  to  establish  another  durable  and  har 
monious  routine.  Immediately  all  parts  of  nature  con 
sent  to  it.  Only  make  something  to  take  the  place  of 
something,  and  men  will  behave  as  if  it  was  the  very 
thing  they  wanted.  They  must  behave,  at  any  rate,  and 
will  work  up  any  material.  There  is  always  a  present 
and  extant  life,  be  it  better  or  worse,  which  all  combine 
to  uphold.  We  should  be  slow  to  mend,  my  friends,  as 
slow  to  require  mending,  "  Not  hurling,  according  to  the 
oracle,  a  transcendent  foot  towards  piety."  The  lan 
guage  of  excitement  is  at  best  picturesque  merely.  You 
must  be  calm  before  you  can  utter  oracles.  What  was 
the  excitement  of  the  Delphic  priestess  compared  with 
the  calm  wisdom  of  Socrates,  —  or  whoever  it  was  that 
was  wise  ?  Enthusiasm  is  a  supernatural  serenity. 

"Men  find  that  action  is  another  thing 

Than  what  they  in  discoursing  papers  read; 
The  world's  affairs  require  in  managing 
More  arts  than  those  wherein  you  clerks  proceed." 

As  in  geology,  so  in  social  institutions,  we  may  discover 


MONDAY  133 

the  causes  of  all  past  change  in  the  present  invariable 
order  of  society.  The  greatest  appreciable  physical 
revolutions  are  the  work  of  the  light-footed  air,  the 
stealthy-paced  water,  and  the  subterranean  fire.  Aris 
totle  said,  "As  time  never  fails,  and  the  universe  is  eter 
nal,  neither  the  Tanais  nor  the  Nile  can  have  flowed 
forever."  We  are  independent  of  the  change  we  detect. 
The  longer  the  lever,  the  less  perceptible  its  motion.  7 
It  is  the  slowest  pulsation  which  is  the  most  vital.  The 
hero  then  will  know  how  to  wait,  as  well  as  to  make 
haste.  All  good  abides  with  him  who  waiteth  wisely; 
we  shall  sooner  overtake  the  dawn  by  remaining  here 
than  by  hurrying  over  the  hills  of  the  west.  Be  assured 
that  every  man's  success  is  in  proportion  to  his  average 
ability.  The  meadow  flowers  spring  and  bloom  where 
the  waters  annually  deposit  their  slime,  not  where  they 
reach  in  some  freshet  only.  A  man  is  not  his  hope,  nor 
his  despair,  nor  yet  his  past  deed.  We  know  not  yet  what 
we  have  done,  still  less  what  we  are  doing.  Wait  till 
evening,  and  other  parts  of  our  day's  work  will  shine 
than  we  had  thought  at  noon,  and  we  shall  discover  the 
real  purport  of  our  toil.  As  when  the  farmer  has  reached 
the  end  of  the  furrow  and  looks  back,  he  can  tell  best 
where  the  pressed  earth  shines  most. 

To  one  who  habitually  endeavors  to  contemplate 
the  true  state  of  things,  the  political  state  can  hardly 
be  said  to  have  any  existence  whatever.  It  is  unreal, 
incredible,  and  insignificant  to  him,  and  for  him  to 
endeavor  to  extract  the  truth  from  such  lean  material 
is  like  making  sugar  from  linen  rags,  when  sugar-cane 


134  A  WEEK 

may  be  had.  Generally  speaking,  the  political  news, 
whether  domestic  or  foreign,  might  be  written  to-day 
for  the  next  ten  years  with  sufficient  accuracy.  Most 
revolutions  in  society  have  not  power  to  interest,  still  less 
alarm  us;  but  tell  me  that  our  rivers  are  drying  up,  or 
the  genus  pine  dying  out  in  the  country,  and  I  might 
attend.  Most  events  recorded  in  history  are  more  re 
markable  than  important,  like  eclipses  of  the  sun  and 
moon,  by  which  all  are  attracted,  but  whose  effects  no 
one  takes  the  trouble  to  calculate. 

But  will  the  government  never  be  so  well  adminis 
tered,  inquired  one,  that  we  private  men  shall  hear 
nothing  about  it  ?  "  The  king  answered :  At  all  events, 
I  require  a  prudent  and  able  man,  who  is  capable  of 
managing  the  state  affairs  of  my  kingdom.  The  ex- 
minister  said:  The  criterion,  O  Sire!  of  a  wise  and 
competent  man  is,  that  he  will  not  meddle  with  such 
like  matters."  Alas  that  the  ex-minister  should  have 
been  so  nearly  right! 

In  my  short  experience  of  human  life,  the  outward 
obstacles,  if  there  were  any  such,  have  not  been  living 
men,  but  the  institutions  of  the  dead.  It  is  grateful  to 
make  one's  way  through  this  latest  generation  as  through 
dewy  grass.  Men  are  as  innocent  as  the  morning  to  the 
unsuspicious. 

"And  round  about  good  morrows  fly, 
As  if  day  taught  humanity." 

Not  being  Reve  of  this  Shire,  — 

"The  early  pilgrim  blythe  he  hailed, 
That  o'er  the  hills  did  stray, 
And  many  an  early  husbandman, 
That  he  met  on  the  way;"  — 


MONDAY  135 

thieves  and  robbers  all,  nevertheless.  I  have  not  so 
surely  foreseen  that  any  Cossack  or  Chippeway  would 
come  to  disturb  the  honest  and  simple  commonwealth, 
as  that  some  monster  institution  would  at  length  em 
brace  and  crush  its  free  members  in  its  scaly  folds;  for 
it  is  not  to  be  forgotten,  that  while  the  law  holds  fast  the 
thief  and  murderer,  it  lets  itself  go  loose.  When  I  have 
not  paid  the  tax  which  the  State  demanded  for  that 
protection  which  I  did  not  want,  itself  has  robbed  me; 
when  I  have  asserted  the  liberty  it  presumed  to  declare, 
itself  has  imprisoned  me.  Poor  creature!  if  it  knows 
no  better  I  will  not  blame  it.  If  it  cannot  live  but  by  these 
means,  I  can.  I  do  not  wish,  it  happens,  to  be  associated 
with  Massachusetts,  either  in  holding  slaves  or  in  con 
quering  Mexico.  I  am  a  little  better  than  herself  in  these 
respects.  As  for  Massachusetts,  that  huge  she  Briareus, 
Argus,  and  Colchian  Dragon  conjoined,  set  to  watch  the 
Heifer  of  the  Constitution  and  the  Golden  Fleece,  we 
would  not  warrant  our  respect  for  her,  like  some  com 
positions,  to  preserve  its  qualities  through  all  weathers. 
Thus  it  has  happened,  that  not  the  Arch  Fiend  himself 
has  been  in  my  way,  but  these  toils  which  tradition  says 
were  originally  spun  to  obstruct  him.  They  are  cob 
webs  and  trifling  obstacles  in  an  earnest  man's  path, 
it  is  true,  and  at  length  one  even  becomes  attached  to 
his  unswept  and  undusted  garret.  I  love  man  —  kind, 
but  I  hate  the  institutions  of  the  dead  unkind.  Men  exe 
cute  nothing  so  faithfully  as  the  wills  of  the  dead,  to  the 
last  codicil  and  letter.  They  rule  this  world,  and  the  liv 
ing  are  but  their  executors.  Such  foundation  too  have 
our  lectures  and  our  sermons,  commonly.  They  are  all 


136  A  WEEK 

Dudleian;  and  piety  derives  its  origin  still  from  that 
exploit  of  plus  ffineas,  who  bore  his  father,  Anchises, 
on  his  shoulders  from  the  ruins  of  Troy.  Or,  rather, 
like  some  Indian  tribes,  we  bear  about  with  us  the 
mouldering  relics  of  our  ancestors  on  our  shoulders. 
If,  for  instance,  a  man  asserts  the  value  of  individual 
liberty  over  the  merely  political  commonweal,  his  neigh 
bor  still  tolerates  him,  that  is,  he  who  is  living  near  him, 
sometimes  even  sustains  him,  but  never  the  State.  Its 
officer,  as  a  living  man,  may  have  human  virtues  and  a 
thought  in  his  brain,  but  as  the  tool  of  an  institution,  a 
jailer  or  constable  it  may  be,  he  is  not  a  whit  superior 
to  his  prison  key  or  his  staff.  Herein  is  the  tragedy: 
that  men  doing  outrage  to  their  proper  natures,  even 
those  called  wise  and  good,  lend  themselves  to  perform 
the  office  of  inferior  and  brutal  ones.  Hence  come  war 
and  slavery  in;  and  what  else  may  not  come  in  by  this 
opening?  But  certainly  there  are  modes  by  which  a 
man  may  put  bread  into  his  mouth  which  will  not  pre 
judice  him  as  a  companion  and  neighbor. 

"Now  turn  again,  turn  again,  said  the  pinder, 

For  a  wrong  way  you  have  gone, 
For  you  have  forsaken  the  king's  highway, 
And  made  a  path  over  the  corn." 

Undoubtedly,  countless  reforms  are  called  for  be 
cause  society  is  not  animated,  or  instinct  enough  with 
life,  but  in  the  condition  of  some  snakes  which  I  have 
seen  in  early  spring,  with  alternate  portions  of  their 
bodies  torpid  and  flexible,  so  that  they  could  wriggle 
neither  way.  All  men  are  partially  buried  in  the  grave 
of  custom,  and  of  some  we  see  only  the  crown  of  the 


MONDAY  137 

head  above  ground.  Better  are  the  physically  dead,  for 
they  more  lively  rot.  Even  virtue  is  no  longer  such  if  it 
be  stagnant.  A  man's  life  should  be  constantly  as  fresh 
as  this  river.  It  should  be  the  same  channel,  but  a  new 
water  every  instant. 

"Virtues  as  rivers  pass, 
But  still  remains  that  virtuous  man  there  was." 

Most  men  have  no  inclination,  no  rapids,  no  cascades, 
but  marshes,  and  alligators,  and  miasma  instead.  We 
read  that  when,  in  the  expedition  of  Alexander,  Onesi- 
critus  was  sent  forward  to  meet  certain  of  the  Indian 
sect  of  Gymnosophists,  and  he  had  told  them  of  those 
new  philosophers  of  the  West,  Pythagoras,  Socrates, 
and  Diogenes,  and  their  doctrines,  one  of  them,  named 
Dandamis,  answered  that  "they  appeared  to  him  to 
have  been  men  of  genius,  but  to  have  lived  with  too 
passive  a  regard  for  the  laws."  The  philosophers  of  the 
West  are  liable  to  this  rebuke  still.  "They  say  that 
Lieou-hia-hoei  and  Chao-lien  did  not  sustain  to  the 
end  their  resolutions,  and  that  they  dishonored  their 
character.  Their  language  was  in  harmony  with  reason 
and  justice;  while  their  acts  were  in  harmony  with  the 
sentiments  of  men." 

Chateaubriand  said:  "There  are  two  things  which 
grow  stronger  in  the  breast  of  man,  in  proportion  as  he 
advances  in  years,  —  the  love  of  country  and  religion. 
Let  them  be  never  so  much  forgotten  in  youth,  they 
sooner  or  later  present  themselves  to  us  arrayed  in  all 
their  charms,  and  excite  in  the  recesses  of  our  hearts  an 
attachment  justly  due  to  their  beauty."  It  may  be  so. 
But  even  this  infirmity  of  noble  minds  marks  the  gradual 


-\ 


138  A  WEEK 

decay  of  youthful  hope  and  faith.  It  is  the  allowed  in 
fidelity  of  age.  There  is  a  saying  of  the  Wolofs,  "He 
who  was  born  first  has  the  greatest  number  of  old 
clothes  ; "  consequently  M.  Chateaubriand  has  more 
old  clothes  than  I  have.  It  is  comparatively  a  faint  and 
reflected  beauty  that  is  admired,  not  an  essential  and 
intrinsic  one.  It  is  because  the  old  are  weak,  feel  their 
mortality,  and  think  that  they  have  measured  the 
strength  of  man.  They  will  not  boast;  they  will  be 
frank  and  humble.  Well,  let  them  have  the  few  poor 
comforts  they  can  keep.  Humility  is  still  a  very  human 
virtue.  They  look  back  on  life,  and  so  see  not  into  the 
future.  The  prospect  of  the  young  is  forward  and  un 
bounded,  mingling  the  future  with  the  present.  In  the 
declining  day  the  thoughts  make  haste  to  rest  in  dark 
ness,  and  hardly  look  forward  to  the  ensuing  morning. 
The  thoughts  of  the  old  prepare  for  night  and  slumber. 
The  same  hopes  and  prospects  are  not  for  him  who 
stands  upon  the  rosy  mountain-tops  of  life,  and  him 
who  expects  the  setting  of  his  earthly  day. 

I  must  conclude  that  Conscience,  if  that  be  the  name 
of  it,  was  not  given  us  for  no  purpose,  or  for  a  hindrance. 
However  flattering  order  and  expediency  may  look,  it 
is  but  the  repose  of  a  lethargy,  and  we  will  choose  rather 
to  be  awake,  though  it  be  stormy,  and  maintain  our 
selves  on  this  earth,  and  in  this  life,  as  we  may,  without 
signing  our  death-warrant.  Let  us  see  if  we  cannot  stay 
here,  where  He  has  put  us,  on  his  own  conditions.  Does 
not  his  law  reach  as  far  as  his  light?  The  expedients 
of  the  nations  clash  with  one  another:  only  the  abso 
lutely  right  is  expedient  for  all. 


1 


MONDAY  139 

There  are  some  passages  in  the  Antigone  of  Sophocles, 
well  known  to  scholars,  of  which  I  am  reminded  in  this 
connection.  Antigone  has  resolved  to  sprinkle  sand  on 
the  dead  body  of  her  brother  Polynices,  notwithstand 
ing  the  edict  of  King  Creon  condemning  to  death  that 
one  who  should  perform  this  service,  which  the  Greeks 
deemed  so  important,  for  the  enemy  of  his  country;  but 
Ismene,  who  is  of  a  less  resolute  and  noble  spirit,  de 
clines  taking  part  with  her  sister  in  this  work,  and  says, — 

"I,  therefore,  asking  those  under  the  earth  to  con 
sider  me,  that  I  am  compelled  to  do  thus,  will  obey 
those  who  are  placed  in  office;  for  to  do  extreme  things 
is  not  wise." 

Antigone.  "  I  would  not  ask  you,  nor  would  you,  if 
you  still  wished,  do  it  joyfully  with  me.  Be  such  as 
seems  good  to  you.  But  I  will  bury  him.  It  is  glorious 
for  me  doing  this  to  die.  I  beloved  will  lie  with  him  be 
loved,  having,  like  a  criminal,  done  what  is  holy;  since 
the  time  is  longer  which  it  is  necessary  for  me  to  please 
those  below,  than  those  here,  for  there  I  shall  always 
lie.  But  if  it  seems  good  to  you,  hold  in  dishonor  things 
which  are  honored  by  the  gods." 

Ismene.  "I  indeed  do  not  hold  them  in  dishonor; 
but  to  act  in  opposition  to  the  citizens  I  am  by  nature 
unable." 

Antigone  being  at  length  brought  before  King  Creon, 
he  asks,  — 

"  Did  you  then  dare  to  transgress  these  laws  ?  " 

Antigone.  "  For  it  was  not  Zeus  who  proclaimed  these 
to  me,  nor  Justice  who  dwells  with  the  gods  below;  it 
was  not  they  who  established  these  laws  among  men. 


140  A  WEEK 

Nor  did  I  think  that  your  proclamations  were  so  strong, 
as,  being  a  mortal,  to  be  able  to  transcend  the  unwritten 
and  immovable  laws  of  the  gods.  For  not  something 
now  and  yesterday,  but  forever  these  live,  and  no  one 
knows  from  what  time  they  appeared.  I  was  not  about 
to  pay  the  penalty  of  violating  these  to  the  gods,  fearing 
the  presumption  of  any  man.  For  I  well  knew  that  I 
should  die,  and  why  not?  even  if  you  had  not  pro 
claimed  it." 

This  was  concerning  the  burial  of  a  dead  body. 

The  wisest  conservatism  is  that  of  the  Hindoos. 
"  Immemorial  custom  is  transcendent  law,"  says  Menu. 
That  is,  it  was  the  custom  of  the  gods  before  men  used 
it.  The  fault  of  our  New  England  custom  is  that  it  is 
memorial.  What  is  morality  but  immemorial  custom  ? 
Conscience  is  the  chief  of  conservatives.  "Perform 
the  settled  functions,"  says  Kreeshna  in  the  Bhagvat- 
Geeta;  "action  is  preferable  to  inaction.  The  journey 
of  thy  mortal  frame  may  not  succeed  from  inaction." 
"  A  man's  own  calling,  with  all  its  faults,  ought  not  to  be 
forsaken.  Every  undertaking  is  involved  in  its  faults 
as  the  fire  in  its  smoke."  "  The  man  who  is  acquainted 
with  the  whole  should  not  drive  those  from  their  works 
who  are  slow  of  comprehension,  and  less  experienced 
than  himself."  "Wherefore,  O  Arjoon,  resolve  to 
fight,"  is  the  advice  of  the  god  to  the  irresolute  soldier 
who  fears  to  slay  his  best  friends.  It  is  a  sublime  con 
servatism;  as  wide  as  the  world,  and  as  unwearied  as 
time;  preserving  the  universe  with  Asiatic  anxiety,  in 
that  state  in  which  it  appeared  to  their  minds.  These 


MONDAY  141 

philosophers  dwell  on  the  inevitability  and  unchange- 
ableness  of  laws,  on  the  power  of  temperament  and  con 
stitution,  the  three  goon,  or  qualities,  and  the  circum 
stances,  or  birth  and  affinity.  The  end  is  an  immense 
consolation;  eternal  absorption  in  Brahma.  Their 
speculations  never  venture  beyond  their  own  table 
lands,  though  they  are  high  and  vast  as  they.  Buoy 
ancy,  freedom,  flexibility,  variety,  possibility,  which 
also  are  qualities  of  the  Unnamed,  they  deal  not  with. 
The  undeserved  reward  is  to  be  earned  by  an  everlasting 
moral  drudgery;  the  incalculable  promise  of  the  mor 
row  is,  as  it  were,  weighed.  And  who  will  say  that  their 
conservatism  has  not  been  effectual?  "Assuredly," 
says  a  French  translator,  speaking  of  the  antiquity 
and  durability  of  the  Chinese  and  Indian  nations,  and 
of  the  wisdom  of  their  legislators,  "  there  are  some  ves 
tiges  of  the  eternal  laws  which  govern  the  world." 

Christianity,  on  the  other  hand,  is  humane,  prac 
tical,  and,  in  a  large  sense,  radical.  So  many  years  and 
ages  of  the  gods  those  Eastern  sages  sat  contemplating 
Brahm,  uttering  in  silence  the  mystic  "Om,"  being 
absorbed  into  the  essence  of  the  Supreme  Being,  never 
going  out  of  themselves,  but  subsiding  farther  and 
deeper  within;  so  infinitely  wise,  yet  infinitely  stag 
nant;  until,  at  last,  in  that  same  Asia,  but  in  the  west 
ern  part  of  it,  appeared  a  youth,  wholly  unforetold  by 
them,  —  not  being  absorbed  into  Brahm,  but  bringing 
Brahm  down  to  earth  and  to  mankind ;  in  whom  Brahm 
had  awaked  from  his  long  sleep,  and  exerted  himself, 
and  the  day  began,  —  a  new  avatar.  The  Brahman 
had  never  thought  to  be  a  brother  of  mankind  as  well 


142  A  WEEK 

as  a  child  of  God.  Christ  is  the  prince  of  Reformers 
and  Radicals.  Many  expressions  in  the  New  Testa 
ment  come  naturally  to  the  lips  of  all  Protestants,  and 
it  furnishes  the  most  pregnant  and  practical  texts. 
There  is  no  harmless  dreaming,  no  wise  speculation  in 
it,  but  everywhere  a  substratum  of  good  sense.  It  never 
reflects,  but  it  repents.  There  is  no  poetry  in  it,  we  may 
say,  nothing  regarded  in  the  light  of  beauty  merely,  but 
moral  truth  is  its  object.  All  mortals  are  convicted 
by  its  conscience. 

The  New  Testament  is  remarkable  for  its  pure 
morality;  the  best  of  the  Hindoo  Scripture,  for  its  pure 
intellectuality.  The  reader  is  nowhere  raised  into  and 
sustained  in  a  higher,  purer,  or  rarer  region  of  thought 
than  in  the  Bhagvat-Geeta.  Warren  Hastings,  in  his 
sensible  letter  recommending  the  translation  of  this 
book  to  the  Chairman  of  the  East  India  Company,  de 
clares  the  original  to  be  "  of  a  sublimity  of  conception, 
reasoning,  and  diction  almost  unequaled,"  and  that 
the  writings  of  the  Indian  philosophers  "will  survive 
when  the  British  dominion  in  India  shall  have  long 
ceased  to  exist,  and  when  the  sources  which  it  once 
yielded  of  wealth  and  power  are  lost  to  remembrance." 
It  is  unquestionably  one  of  the  noblest  and  most  sacred 
scriptures  which  have  come  down  to  us.  Books  are  to 
be  distinguished  by  the  grandeur  of  their  topics  even 
more  than  by  the  manner  in  which  they  are  treated. 
The  Oriental  philosophy  approaches  easily  loftier 
themes  than  the  modern  aspires  to;  and  no  wonder  if 
it  sometimes  prattle  about  them.  It  only  assigns  their 
due  rank  respectively  to  Action  and  Contemplation,  or 


MONDAY  143 

rather  does  full  justice  to  the  latter.  Western  philoso 
phers  have  not  conceived  of  the  significance  of  Con 
templation  in  their  sense.  Speaking  of  the  spiritual 
discipline  to  which  the  Brahmans  subjected  themselves, 
and  the  wonderful  power  of  abstraction  to  which  they 
attained,  instances  of  which  had  come  under  his  no 
tice,  Hastings  says :  — 

"To  those  who  have  never  been  accustomed  to  the 
separation  of  the  mind  from  the  notices  of  the  senses, 
it  may  not  be  easy  to  conceive  by  what  means  such  a 
power  is  to  be  attained;  since  even  the  most  studious 
men  of  our  hemisphere  will  find  it  difficult  so  to  re 
strain  their  attention,  but  that  it  will  wander  to  some 
object  of  present  sense  or  recollection;  and  even  the 
buzzing  of  a  fly  will  sometimes  have  the  power  to 
disturb  it.  But  if  we  are  told  that  there  have  been 
men  who  were  successively,  for  ages  past,  in  the  daily 
habit  of  abstracted  contemplation,  begun  in  the  earliest 
period  of  youth,  and  continued  in  many  to  the  matu 
rity  of  age,  each  adding  some  portion  of  knowledge 
to  the  store  accumulated  by  his  predecessors;  it  is  not 
assuming  too  much  to  conclude,  that  as  the  mind  ever 
gathers  strength,  like  the  body,  by  exercise,  so  in  such 
an  exercise  it  may  in  each  have  acquired  the  faculty  to 
which  they  aspired,  and  that  their  collective  studies 
may  have  led  them  to  the  discovery  of  new  tracts  and 
combinations  of  sentiment,  totally  different  from  the 
doctrines  with  which  the  learned  of  other  nations  are 
acquainted;  doctrines  which,  however  speculative  and 
subtle,  still  as  they  possess  the  advantage  of  being  de 
rived  from  a  source  so  free  from  every  adventitious 


144  A  WEEK 

mixture,  may  be  equally  founded  in  truth  with  the  most 
simple  of  our  own." 

"The  forsaking  of  works"  was  taught  by  Kreeshna 
to  the  most  ancient  of  men,  and  handed  down  from 
age  to  age,  "  until  at  length,  in  the  course  of  time,  the 
mighty  art  was  lost." 

"In  wisdom  is  to  be  found  every  work  without  ex 
ception,"  says  Kreeshna. 

"Although  thou  wert  the  greatest  of  all  offenders, 
thou  shalt  be  able  to  cross  the  gulf  of  sin  with  the 
bark  of  wisdom." 

"  There  is  not  anything  in  this  world  to  be  compared 
with  wisdom  for  purity." 

"The  action  stands  at  a  distance  inferior  to  the  ap 
plication  of  wisdom." 

The  wisdom  of  a  Moonee  "is  confinned,when,  like 
the  tortoise,  he  can  draw  in  all  his  members,  and  re 
strain  them  from  their  wonted  purposes." 

"Children  only,  and  not  the  learned,  speak  of  the 
speculative  and  the  practical  doctrines  as  two.  They 
are  but  one.  For  both  obtain  the  selfsame  end,  and 
the  place  which  is  gained  by  the  followers  of  the  one 
is  gained  by  the  followers  of  the  other." 

"The  man  enjoyeth  not  freedom  from  action,  from 
the  non-commencement  of  that  which  he  hath  to  do; 
nor  doth  he  obtain  happiness  from  a  total  inactivity. 
No  one  ever  resteth  a  moment  inactive.  Every  man  is 
involuntarily  urged  to  act  by  those  principles  which 
are  inherent  in  his  nature.  The  man  who  restraineth  his 
active  faculties,  and  sitteth  down  with  his  mind  atten 
tive  to  the  objects  of  his  senses,  is  called  one  of  an 


MONDAY  145 

astrayed  soul,  and  the  practicer  of  deceit.  So  the  man 
is  praised,  who,  having  subdued  all  his  passions,  per- 
formeth  with  his  active  faculties  all  the  functions  of 
life,  unconcerned  about  the  event." 

"  Let  the  motive  be  in  the  deed  and  not  in  the  event. 
Be  not  one  whose  motive  for  action  is  the  hope  of  re 
ward.  Let  not  thy  life  be  spent  in  inaction." 

"  For  the  man  who  doeth  that  which  he  hath  to  do, 
without  affection,  obtaineth  the  Supreme." 

"He  who  may  behold  as  it  were  inaction  in  action, 
and  action  in  inaction,  is  wise  amongst  mankind.  He 
is  a  perfect  performer  of  all  duty." 

"Wise  men  call  him  a  Pandeet,  whose  every  under 
taking  is  free  from  the  idea  of  desire,  and  whose  actions 
are  consumed  by  the  fire  of  wisdom.  He  abandoneth 
the  desire  of  a  reward  of  his  actions ;  he  is  always  con 
tented  and  independent;  and  although  he  may  be  en 
gaged  in  a  work,  he  as  it  were  doeth  nothing." 

"  He  is  both  a  Yogee  and  a  Sannyasee  who  perform- 
eth  that  which  he  hath  to  do  independent  of  the  fruit 
thereof;  not  he  who  liveth  without  the  sacrificial  fire 
and  without  action." 

"He  who  enjoyeth  but  the  Amreeta  which  is  left  of 
his  offerings  obtaineth  the  eternal  spirit  of  Brahm,  the 
Supreme." 

What,  after  all,  does  the  practicalness  of  life  amount 
to  ?  The  things  immediate  to  de  done  are  very  trivial. 
I  could  postpone  them  all  to  hear  this  locust  sing.  The 
most  glorious  fact  in  my  experience  is  not  anything  that 
I  have  done  or  may  hope  to  do,  but  a  transient  thought, 
or  vision,  or  dream,  which  I  have  had.  I  would  give  all 


146  A  WEEK 

the  wealth  of  the  world,  and  all  the  deeds  of  all  the 
heroes,  for  one  true  vision.  But  how  can  I  communi 
cate  with  the  gods,  who  am  a  pencil-maker  on  the  earth, 
and  not  be  insane? 

"I  am  the  same  to  all  mankind,"  says  Kreeshna; 
"  there  is  not  one  who  is  worthy  of  my  love  or  hatred." 

This  teaching  is  not  practical  in  the  sense  in  which 
the  New  Testament  is.  It  is  not  always  sound  sense  in 
practice.  The  Brahman  never  proposes  courageously 
to  assault  evil,  but  patiently  to  starve  it  out.  His  active 
faculties  are  paralyzed  by  the  idea  of  caste,  of  impassa 
ble  limits  of  destiny  and  the  tyranny  of  time.  Kreeshna's 
argument,  it  must  be  allowed,  is  defective.  No  sufficient 
/treason  is  given  why  Arjoon  should  fight.  Arjoon  may 
be  convinced,  but  the  reader  is  not,  for  his  judgment 
is  not  "formed  upon  the  speculative  doctrines  of  the 
Sankhya  Sastra"  "Seek  an  asylum  in  wisdom  alone;" 
but  what  is  wisdom  to  a  Western  mind  ?  The  duty  of 
which  he  speaks  is  an  arbitrary  one.  When  was  it  es 
tablished  ?  The  Brahman's  virtue  consists  in  doing,  not 
right,  but  arbitrary  things.  What  is  that  which  a  man 
"  hath  to  do  "  ?  What  is  "  action  "  ?  What  are  the  "  set 
tled  functions"?  What  is  "a  man's  own  religion," 
which  is  so  much  better  than  another's  ?  What  is  "  a 
man's  own  particular  calling"?  What  are  the  duties 
which  are  appointed  by  one's  birth  ?  It  is  a  defense  of 
the  institution  of  castes,  of  what  is  called  the  "  natural 
duty"  of  the  Kshetree,  or  soldier,  "to  attach  himself 
to  the  discipline,"  "not  to  flee  from  the  field,"  and  the 
like.  But  they  who  are  unconcerned  about  the  conse 
quences  of  their  actions  are  not  therefore  unconcerned 
about  their  actions. 


MONDAY  147 

Behold  the  difference  between  the  Oriental  and  the 
Occidental.  The  former  has  nothing  to  do  in  this  world ; 
the  latter  is  full  of  activity.  The  one  looks  in  the  sun 
till  his  eyes  are  put  out ;  the  other  follows  him  prone  in 
his  westward  course.  There  is  such  a  thing  as  caste, 
even  in  the  West;  but  it  is  comparatively  faint;  it  is 
conservatism  here.  It  says,  forsake  not  your  calling, 
outrage  no  institution,  use  no  violence,  rend  no  bonds; 
the  State  is  thy  parent.  Its  virtue  or  manhood  is  wholly 
filial.  There  is  a  struggle  between  the  Oriental  and 
Occidental  in  every  nation;  some  who  would  be  for 
ever  contemplating  the  sun,  and  some  who  are  hasten 
ing  toward  the  sunset.  The  former  class  says  to  the 
latter,  When  you  have  reached  the  sunset,  you  will  be 
no  nearer  to  the  sun.  To  which  the  latter  replies,  But 
we  so  prolong  the  day.  The  former  "walketh  but  in 
that  night,  when  all  things  go  to  rest  in  the  night  of 
time.  The  contemplative  Moonee  sleepeth  but  in  the 
day  of  time,  when  all  things  wake." 

To  conclude  these  extracts,  I  can  say,  in  the  words 
of  Sanjay,  "As,  O  mighty  Prince!  I  recollect  again 
and  again  this  holy  and  wonderful  dialogue  of  Kreeshna 
and  Arjoon,  I  continue  more  and  more  to  rejoice;  and 
as  I  recall  to  my  memory  the  more  than  miraculous 
form  of  Haree,  my  astonishment  is  great,  and  I  marvel 
and  rejoice  again  and  again!  Wherever  Kreeshna  the 
God  of  devotion  may  be,  wherever  Arjoon  the  mighty 
bowman  may  be,  there  too,  without  doubt,  are  fortune, 
riches,  victory,  and  good  conduct.  This  is  my  firm  be 
lief." 

I  would  say  to  the  readers  of  Scriptures,  if  they  wish 


148  A  WEEK 

for  a  good  book,  read  the  Bhagvat-Geeta,  an  episode 
to  the  Mahabharat,  said  to  have  been  written  by 
Kreeshna  Dwypayen  Veias,  —  known  to  have  been 

written  by ,  more  than  four  thousand  years  ago,  — 

it  matters  not  whether  three  or  four,  or  when,  —  trans 
lated  by  Charles  Wilkins.  It  deserves  to  be  read  with 
reverence  even  by  Yankees,  as  a  part  of  the  sacred 
writings  of  a  devout  people ;  and  the  intelligent  Hebrew 
will  rejoice  to  find  in  it  a  moral  grandeur  and  sublimity 
akin  to  those  of  his  own  Scriptures. 

To  an  American  reader,  who,  by  the  advantage  of 
his  position,  can  see  over  that  strip  of  Atlantic  coast  to 
Asia  and  the  Pacific,  who,  as  it  were,  sees  the  shore 
slope  upward  over  the  Alps  to  the  Himmaleh  Moun 
tains,  the  comparatively  recent  literature  of  Europe 
often  appears  partial  and  clannish;  and,  notwithstand 
ing  the  limited  range  of  his  own  sympathies  and  studies, 
the  European  writer  who  presumes  that  he  is  speaking 
for  the  world  is  perceived  by  him  to  speak  only  for  that 
corner  of  it  which  he  inhabits.  One  of  the  rarest  of 
England's  scholars  and  critics,  in  his  classification  of 
the  worthies  of  the  world,  betrays  the  narrowness  of  his 
European  culture  and  the  exclusiveness  of  his  reading. 
None  of  her  children  has  done  justice  to  the  poets  and 
philosophers  of  Persia  or  of  India.  They  have  even 
been  better  known  to  her  merchant  scholars  than  to 
her  poets  and  thinkers  by  profession.  You  may  look  in 
vain  through  English  poetry  for  a  single  memorable 
verse  inspired  by  these  themes.  Nor  is  Germany  to 
be  excepted,  though  her  philological  industry  is  indi 
rectly  serving  the  cause  of  philosophy  and  poetry.  Even 


MONDAY  149 

Goethe  wanted  that  universality  of  genius  which  could 
have  appreciated  the  philosophy  of  India,  if  he  had 
more  nearly  approached  it.  His  genius  was  more  prac 
tical,  dwelling  much  more  in  the  regions  of  the  under 
standing,  and  was  less  native  to  contemplation  than 
the  genius  of  those  sages.  It  is  remarkable  that  Homer 
and  a  few  Hebrews  are  the  most  Oriental  names  which 
modern  Europe,  whose  literature  has  taken  its  rise  since  f  ^ 
the  decline  of  the  Persian,  has  admitted  into  her  list  of 
Worthies,  and  perhaps  the  worthiest  of  mankind,  and 
the  fathers  of  modern  thinking,  —  for  the  contempla 
tions  of  those  Indian  sages  have  influenced,  and  still 
influence,  the  intellectual  development  of  mankind,  — 
whose  works  even  yet  survive  in  wonderful  complete-  j 
ness,  are,  for  the  most  part,  not  recognized  as  ever  hav 
ing  existed.  If  the  lions  had  been  the  painters,  it  would 
have  been  otherwise.  In  every  one's  youthful  dreams, 
philosophy  is  still  vaguely  but  inseparably,  and  with 
singular  truth,  associated  with  the  East,  nor  do  after 
years  discover  its  local  habitation  in  the  Western  world. 
In  comparison  with  the  philosophers  of  the  East,  we 
may  say  that  modern  Europe  has  yet  given  birth  to 
none.  Beside  the  vast  and  cosmogonal  philosophy  of 
the  Bhagvat-Geeta,  even  our  Shakespeare  seems  some 
times  youthfully  green  and  practical  merely.  Some  of, 
these  sublime  sentences,  as  the  Chaldsean  oracles  of 
Zoroaster,  still  surviving  after  a  thousand  revolutions 
and  translations,  alone  make  us  doubt  if  the  poetic 
form  and  dress  are  not  transitory,  and  not  essential  to 
the  most  effective  and  enduring  expression  of  thought. 
Ex  oriente  lux  may  still  be  the  motto  of  scholars,  for 


150  A  WEEK 

the  Western  world  has  not  yet  derived  from  the  East 
all  the  light  which  it  is  destined  to  receive  thence. 

It  would  be  worthy  of  the  age  to  print  together  the 
collected  Scriptures  or  Sacred  Writings  of  the  several 
nations,  the  Chinese,  the  Hindoos,  the  Persians,  the 
Hebrews,  and  others,  as  the  Scripture  of  mankind. 
The  New  Testament  is  still,  perhaps,  too  much  on  the 
lips  and  in  the  hearts  of  men  to  be  called  a  Scripture  in 
this  sense.  Such  a  juxtaposition  and  comparison  might 
help  to  liberalize  the  faith  of  men.  This  is  a  work  which 
Time  will  surely  edit,  reserved  to  crown  the  labors  of 
the  printing-press.  This  would  be  the  Bible,  or  Book 
of  Books,  which  let  the  missionaries  carry  to  the  utter 
most  parts  of  the  earth. 

While  engaged  in  these  reflections,  thinking  ourselves 
the  only  navigators  of  these  waters,  suddenly  a  canal- 
boat,  with  its  sail  set,  glided  round  a  point  before  us, 
like  some  huge  river  beast,  and  changed  the  scene  in  an 
instant;  and  then  another  and  another  glided  into  sight, 
and  we  found  ourselves  in  the  current  of  commerce  once 
more.  So  we  threw  our  rinds  in  the  water  for  the  fishes 
to  nibble,  and  added  our  breath  to  the  life  of  living  men. 
Little  did  we  think,  in  the  distant  garden  in  which  we 
had  planted  the  seed  and  reared  this  fruit,  where  it 
would  be  eaten.  Our  melons  lay  at  home  on  the  sandy 
bottom  of  the  Merrimack,  and  our  potatoes  in  the  sun 
and  water  at  the  bottom  of  the  boat  looked  like  a  fruit 
of  the  country.  Soon,  however,  we  were  delivered  from 
this  fleet  of  junks,  and  possessed  the  river  in  solitude, 
once  more  rowing  steadily  upward  through  the  noon, 


MONDAY  161 

between  the  territories  of  Nashua  on  the  one  hand  and 
Hudson,  once  Nottingham,  on  the  other.  From  time 
to  time  we  scared  up  a  kingfisher  or  a  summer  duck, 
the  former  flying  rather  by  vigorous  impulses  than  by 
steady  and  patient  steering  with  that  short  rudder  of 
his,  sounding  his  rattle  along  the  fluvial  street. 

Ere  long  another  scow  hove  in  sight,  creeping  down 
the  river;  and  hailing  it,  we  attached  ourselves  to  its 
side,  and  floated  back  in  company,  chatting  with  the 
boatmen,  and  obtaining  a  draught  of  cooler  water  from 
their  jug.  They  appeared  to  be  green  hands  from  far 
among  the  hills,  who  had  taken  this  means  to  get  to  the 
seaboard,  and  see  the  world;  and  would  possibly  visit 
the  Falkland  Isles,  and  the  China  seas,  before  they 
again  saw  the  waters  of  the  Merrimack,  or,  perchance, 
they  would  not  return  this  way  forever.  They  had  al 
ready  embarked  the  private  interests  of  the  landsman 
in  the  larger  venture  of  the  race,  and  were  ready  to  mess 
with  mankind,  reserving  only  the  till  of  a  chest  to  them 
selves.  But  they  too  were  soon  lost  behind  a  point,  and 
we  went  croaking  on  our  way  alone.  What  grievance 
has  its  root  among  the  New  Hampshire  hills?  we 
asked;  what  is  wanting  to  human  life  here,  that  these 
men  should  make  haste  to  the  antipodes  ?  We  prayed 
that  their  bright  anticipations  might  not  be  rudely  dis 
appointed. 

Though  all  the  fates  should  prove  unkind, 
Leave  not  your  native  land  behind. 
The  ship,  becalmed,  at  length  stands  still; 
The  steed  must  rest  beneath  the  hill; 
But  swiftly  still  our  fortunes  pace 
To  find  us  out  hi  every  place. 


153  A  WEEK 

The  vessel,  though  her  masts  be  firm, 

Beneath  her  copper  bears  a  worm; 

Around  the  cape,  across  the  line, 

Till  fields  of  ice  her  course  confine; 

It  matters  not  how  smooth  the  breeze, 

How  shallow  or  how  deep  the  seas, 

Whether  she  bears  Manilla  twine, 

Or  in  her  hold  Madeira  wine, 

Or  China  teas,  or  Spanish  hides, 

In  port  or  quarantine  she  rides; 

Far  from  New  England's  blustering  shore, 

New  England's  worm  her  hulk  shall  bore, 

And  sink  her  in  the  Indian  seas, 

Twine,  wine,  and  hides,  and  China  teas. 

We  passed  a  small  desert  here  on  the  east  bank,  be 
tween  Tyngsborough  and  Hudson,  which  was  inter 
esting  and  even  refreshing  to  our  eyes  in  the  midst  of 
the  almost  universal  greenness.  This  sand  was  indeed 
somewhat  impressive  and  beautiful  to  us.  A  very  old 
inhabitant,  who  was  at  work  in  a  field  on  the  Nashua 
side,  told  us  that  he  remembered  when  corn  and  grain 
grew  there,  and  it  was  a  cultivated  field.  But  at  length 
the  fishermen  —  for  this  was  a  fishing-place  —  pulled  up 
the  bushes  on  the  shore,  for  greater  convenience  in  haul 
ing  their  seines,  and  when  the  bank  was  thus  broken, 
the  wind  began  to  blow  up  the  sand  from  the  shore,  until 
at  length  it  had  covered  about  fifteen  acres  several  feet 
deep.  We  saw  near  the  river,  where  the  sand  was  blown 
off  down  to  some  ancient  surface,  the  foundation  of  an 
Indian  wigwam  exposed,  a  perfect  circle  of  burnt  stones, 
four  or  five  feet  in  diameter,  mingled  with  fine  charcoal, 
and  the  bones  of  small  animals  which  had  been  pre 
served  in  the  sand.  The  surrounding  sand  was  sprinkled 


MONDAY  153 

with  other  burnt  stones  on  which  their  fires  had  been 
built,  as  well  as  with  flakes  of  arrowhead  stone,  and  we 
found  one  perfect  arrowhead.  In  one  place  we  noticed 
where  an  Indian  had  sat  to  manufacture  arrowheads 
out  of  quartz,  and  the  sand  was  sprinkled  with  a  quart 
of  small  glass-like  chips  about  as  big  as  a  fourpence, 
which  he  had  broken  off  in  his  work.  Here,  then,  the 
Indians  must  have  fished  before  the  whites  arrived. 
There  was  another  similar  sandy  tract  about  half  a  mile 
above  this. 

Still  the  noon  prevailed,  and  we  turned  the  prow 
aside  to  bathe,  and  recline  ourselves  under  some  button- 
woods,  by  a  ledge  of  rocks,  in  a  retired  pasture  sloping  to 
the  water's  edge  and  skirted  with  pines  and  hazels,  in 
the  town  of  Hudson.  Still  had  India,  and  that  old  noon 
tide  philosophy,  the  better  part  of  our  thoughts. 

It  is  always  singular,  but  encouraging,  to  meet  with 
common  sense  in  very  old  books,  as  the  Heetopades  of 
Veeshnoo  Sarma;  a  playful  wisdom  which  has  eyes 
behind  as  well  as  before,  and  oversees  itself.  It  asserts 
their  health  and  independence  of  the  experience  of  later 
times.  This  pledge  of  sanity  cannot  be  spared  in  a  book, 
that  it  sometimes  pleasantly  reflect  upon  itself.  The 
story  and  fabulous  portion  of  this  book  winds  loosely 
from  sentence  to  sentence  as  so  many  oases  in  a  desert, 
and  is  as  indistinct  as  a  camel's  track  between  Mourzouk 
and  Darfour.  It  is  a  comment  on  the  flow  and  freshet 
of  modern  books.  The  reader  leaps  from  sentence  to 
sentence,  as  from  one  stepping-stone  to  another,  while 
the  stream  of  the  story  rushes  past  unregarded.  The 
Bhagvat-Geeta  is  less  sententious  and  poetic,  perhaps, 


154  A  WEEK 

but  still  more  wonderfully  sustained  and  developed. 
Its  sanity  and  sublimity  have  impressed  the  minds  even 
of  soldiers  and  merchants.  It  is  the  characteristic  of 
great  poems  that  they  will  yield  of  their  sense  in  due 
proportion  to  the  hasty  and  the  deliberate  reader.  To  the 
practical  they  will  be  common  sense,  and  to  the  wise 
wisdom;  as  either  the  traveler  may  wet  his  lips,  or  an 
army  may  fill  its  water-casks  at  a  full  stream. 

One  of  the  most  attractive  of  those  ancient  books 
that  I  have  met  with  is  the  Laws  of  Menu.  According 
to  Sir  William  Jones,  "  Vyasa,  the  son  of  Parasara,  has 
decided  that  the  Veda,  with  its  Angas,  or  the  six  com 
positions  deduced  from  it,  the  revealed  system  of  medi 
cine,  the  Puranas  or  sacred  histories,  and  the  code  of 
Menu,  were  four  works  of  supreme  authority,  which 
ought  never  to  be  shaken  by  arguments  merely  human." 
The  last  is  believed  by  the  Hindoos  "to  have  been 
promulged  in  the  beginning  of  time,  by  Menu,  son  or 
grandson  of  Brahma,"  and  "first  of  created  beings;" 
and  Brahma  is  said  to  have  "  taught  his  laws  to  Menu  in 
a  hundred  thousand  verses,  which  Menu  explained  to 
the  primitive  world  in  the  very  words  of  the  book  now 
translated."  Others  affirm  that  they  have  undergone 
successive  abridgments  for  the  convenience  of  mortals, 
"  while  the  gods  of  the  lower  heaven  and  the  band  of 
celestial  musicians  are  engaged  in  studying  the  primary 
code."  "A  number  of  glosses  or  comments  on  Menu 
were  composed  by  the  Munis,  or  old  philosophers,  whose 
treatises,  together  with  that  before  us,  constitute  the 
Dherma  Sastra,  in  a  collective  sense,  or  Body  of  Law." 
Culluca  Bhatta  was  one  of  the  more  modern  of  these. 


MONDAY  155 

Every  sacred  book,  successively,  has  been  accepted  in 
the  faith  that  it  was  to  be  the  final  resting-place  of  the 
sojourning  soul;  but  after  all,  it  was  but  a  caravansary 
which  supplied  refreshment  to  the  traveler,  and  directed 
him  farther  on  his  way  to  Isphahan  or  Bagdat.  Thank 
God,  no  Hindoo  tyranny  prevailed  at  the  framing  of 
the  world,  but  we  are  freemen  of  the  universe,  and  not 
sentenced  to  any  caste. 

I  know  of  no  book  which  has  come  down  to  us  with 
grander  pretensions  than  this,  and  it  is  so  impersonal 
and  sincere  that  it  is  never  offensive  nor  ridiculous. 
Compare  the  modes  in  which  modern  literature  is  adver 
tised  with  the  prospectus  of  this  book,  and  think  what  a 
reading  public  it  addresses,  what  criticism  it  expects.  It 
seems  to  have  been  uttered  from  some  eastern  summit, 
with  a  sober  morning  prescience  in  the  dawn  of  time, 
and  you  cannot  read  a  sentence  without  being  elevated 
as  upon  the  table-land  of  the  Ghauts.  It  has  such  a 
rhythm  as  the  winds  of  the  desert,  such  a  tide  as  the 
Ganges,  and  is  as  superior  to  criticism  as  the  Himmaleh 
Mountains.  Its  tone  is  of  such  unrelaxed  fibre  that  even 
at  this  late  day,  unworn  by  time,  it  wears  the  English 
and  the  Sanskrit  dress  indifferently;  and  its  fixed  sen 
tences  keep  up  their  distant  fires  still,  like  the  stars,  by 
whose  dissipated  rays  this  lower  world  is  illumined.  The 
whole  book  by  noble  gestures  and  inclinations  renders 
many  words  unnecessary.  English  sense  has  toiled,  but 
Hindoo  wisdom  never  perspired.  Though  the  sentences 
open  as  we  read  them,  unexpensively,  and  at  first  almost 
unmeaningly,  as  the  petals  of  a  flower,  they  sometimes 
startle  us  with  that  rare  kind  of  wisdom  which  could 


156  A  WEEK 

only  have  been  learned  from  the  most  trivial  experience ; 
but  it  comes  to  us  as  refined  as  the  porcelain  earth  which 
subsides  to  the  bottom  of  the  ocean.  They  are  clean  and 
dry  as  fossil  truths,  which  have  been  exposed  to  the 
elements  for  thousands  of  years,  so  impersonally  and 
scientifically  true  that  they  are  the  ornament  of  the 
parlor  and  the  cabinet.  Any  moral  philpsophy  is  exceed 
ingly  rare.  This  of  Menu  addresses  our  privacy  more 
than  most.  It  is  a  more  private  and  familiar,  and  at  the 
same  time  a  more  public  and  universal  word,  than  is 
spoken  in  parlor  or  pulpit  nowadays.  As  our  domestic 
fowls  are  said  to  have  their  original  in  the  wild  pheasant 
of  India,  so  our  domestic  thoughts  have  their  proto 
types  in  the  thoughts  of  her  philosophers.  We  are  dab 
bling  in  the  very  elements  of  our  present  conventional 
and  actual  life;  as  if  it  were  the  primeval  conventicle, 
where  how  to  eat,  and  to  drink,  and  to  sleep,  and  main 
tain  life  with  adequate  dignity  and  sincerity,  were  the 
questions  to  be  decided.  It  is  later  and  more  intimate 
with  us  even  than  the  advice  of  our  nearest  friends.  And 
yet  it  is  true  for  the  widest  horizon,  and  read  out  of  doors 
has  relation  to  the  dim  mountain  line,  and  is  native  and 
aboriginal  there.  Most  books  belong  to  the  house  and 
street  only,  and  in  the  fields  their  leaves  feel  very  thin. 
They  are  bare  and  obvious,  and  have  no  halo  nor  haze 
about  them.  Nature  lies  far  and  fair  behind  them  all. 
But  this,  as  it  proceeds  from,  so  it  addresses,  what  is 
deepest  and  most  abiding  in  man.  It  belongs  to  the 
noontide  of  the  day,  the  midsummer  of  the  year,  and 
after  the  snows  have  melted,  and  the  waters  evaporated 
in  the  spring,  still  its  truth  speaks  freshly  to  our  experi- 


MONDAY  157 

ence.  It  helps  the  sun  to  shine,  and  his  rays  fall  on  its 
page  to  illustrate  it.  It  spends  the  mornings  and  the  even 
ings,  and  makes  such  an  impression  on  us  overnight 
as  to  awaken  us  before  dawn,  and  its  influence  lingers 
around  us  like  a  fragrance  late  into  the  day.  It  conveys 
a  new  gloss  to  the  meadows  and  the  depths  of  the  wood, 
and  its  spirit,  like  a  more  subtile  ether,  sweeps  along 
with  the  prevailing  winds  of  a  country.  The  very  locusts 
and  crickets  of  a  summer  day  are  but  later  or  earlier 
glosses  on  the  Dherma  Sastra  of  the  Hindoos,  a  continu 
ation  of  the  sacred  code.  As  we  have  said,  there  is  an 
orientalism  in  the  most  restless  pioneer,  and  the  farthest 
west  is  but  the  farthest  east.  While  we  are  reading  these 
sentences,  this  fair  modern  world  seems  only  a  reprint  of 
the  Laws  of  Menu  with  the  gloss  of  Culluca.  Tried  by  a 
New  England  eye,  or  the  more  practical  wisdom  of  mod 
ern  times,  they  are  the  oracles  of  a  race  already  in  its 
dotage ;  but  held  up  to  the  sky,  which  is  the  only  impar 
tial  and  incorruptible  ordeal,  they  are  of  a  piece  with  its 
depth  and  serenity,  and  I  am  assured  that  they  will  have 
a  place  and  significance  as  long  as  there  is  a  sky  to  test 
them  by. 

Give  me  a  sentence  which  no  intelligence  can  under 
stand.  There  must  be  a  kind  of  life  and  palpitation  to  it, 
and  under  its  words  a  kind  of  blood  must  circulate  for 
ever.  It  is  wonderful  that  this  sound  should  have  come 
down  to  us  from  so  far,  when  the  voice  of  man  can  be 
heard  so  little  way,  and  we  are  not  now  within  earshot  of 
any  contemporary.  The  woodcutters  have  here  felled  an 
ancient  pine  forest,  and  brought  to  light  to  these  distant 
hills  a  fair  lake  in  the  southwest;  and  now  in  an  instant 


158  A  WEEK 

it  is  distinctly  shown  to  these  woods  as  if  its  image  had 
traveled  hither  from  eternity.  Perhaps  these  old  stumps 
upon  the  knoll  remember  when  anciently  this  lake 
gleamed  in  the  horizon.  One  wonders  if  the  bare  earth 
itself  did  not  experience  emotion  at  beholding  again  so 
fair  a  prospect.  That  fair  water  lies  there  in  the  sun  thus 
revealed,  so  much  the  prouder  and  fairer  because  its 
beauty  needed  not  to  be  seen.  It  seems  yet  lonely,  suffi 
cient  to  itself  and  superior  to  observation.  So  are  these 
old  sentences  like  serene  lakes  in  the  southwest,  at  length 
revealed  to  us,  which  have  so  long  been  reflecting  our 
own  sky  in  their  bosom. 

The  great  plain  of  India  lies  as  in  a  cup  between  the 
Himmaleh  and  the  ocean  on  the  north  and  south,  and 
the  Brahmapootra  and  Indus  on  the  east  and  west, 
wherein  the  primeval  race  was  received.  We  will  not 
dispute  the  story.  We  are  pleased  to  read  in  the  nat 
ural  history  of  the  country,  of  the  "  pine,  larch,  spruce, 
and  silver  fir,"  which  cover  the  southern  face  of  the 
Himmaleh  range;  of  the  "gooseberry,  raspberry,  straw 
berry,"  which  from  an  imminent  temperate  zone  over 
look  the  torrid  plains.  So  did  this  active  modern  life 
have  even  then  a  foothold  and  lurking-place  in  the 
midst  of  the  stateliness  and  contemplativeness  of  those 
Eastern  plains.  In  another  era  the  "lily  of  the  valley, 
cowslip,  dandelion  "  were  to  work  their  way  down  into 
the  plain,  and  bloom  in  a  level  zone  of  their  own  reaching 
round  the  earth.  Already  has  the  era  of  the  temperate 
zone  arrived,  the  era  of  the  pine  and  the  oak,  for  the 
palm  and  the  banian  do  not  supply  the  wants  of  this  age. 
The  lichens  on  the  summits  of  the  rocks  will  perchance 
find  their  level  ere  long. 


MONDAY  159 

As  for  the  tenets  of  the  Brahmans,  we  are  not  so  much 
concerned  to  know  what  doctrines  they  held,  as  that 
they  were  held  by  any.  We  can  tolerate  all  philosophies, 
Atomists,  Pneumatologists,  Atheists,  Theists,  —  Plato, 
Aristotle,  Leucippus,  Democritus,  Pythagoras,  Zoro 
aster,  and  Confucius.  It  is  the  attitude  of  these  men, 
more  than  any  communication  which  they  make,  that 
attracts  us.  Between  them  and  their  commentators,  it  is 
true,  there  is  an  endless  dispute.  But  if  it  comes  to  this, 
that  you  compare  notes,  then  you  are  all  wrong.  As  it  is, 
each  takes  us  up  into  the  serene  heavens,  whither  the 
smallest  bubble  rises  as  surely  as  the  largest,  and  paints 
earth  and  sky  for  us.  Any  sincere  thought  is  irresistible. 
The  very  austerity  of  the  Brahmans  is  tempting  to  the 
devotional  soul,  as  a  more  refined  and  nobler  luxury. 
Wants  so  easily  and  gracefully  satisfied  seem  like  a  more 
refined  pleasure.  Their  conception  of  creation  is  peace 
ful  as  a  dream.  "  When  that  power  awakes,  then  has  this 
world  its  full  expansion;  but  when  he  slumbers  with  a 
tranquil  spirit,  then  the  whole  system  fades  away."  In 
the  very  indistinctness  of  their  theogony  a  sublime  truth 
is  implied.  It  hardly  allows  the  reader  to  rest  in  any 
supreme  first  cause,  but  directly  it  hints  at  a  supremer 
still  which  created  the  last,  and  the  Creator  is  still  be 
hind  increate. 

Nor  will  we  disturb  the  antiquity  of  this  Scripture, 
"  From  fire,  from  air,  and  from  the  sun,"  it  was  "  milked 
out."  One  might  as  well  investigate  the  chronology  of 
light  and  heat.  Let  the  sun  shine.  Menu  understood  this 
matter  best,  when  he  said,  "  Those  best  know  the  divisions 
of  days  and  nights  who  understand  that  the  day  of 


160  A  WEEK 

Brahma,  which  endures  to  the  end  of  a  thousand  such 
ages  [infinite  ages,  nevertheless,  according  to  mortal 
reckoning],  gives  rise  to  virtuous  exertions;  and  that  his 
night  endures  as  long  as  his  day."  Indeed,  the  Mussul 
man  and  Tartar  dynasties  are  beyond  all  dating.  Me- 
thinks  I  have  lived  under  them  myself.  In  every  man's 
brain  is  the  Sanskrit.  The  Vedas  and  their  Angas  are 
not  so  ancient  as  serene  contemplation.  Why  will  we  be 
imposed  on  by  antiquity  ?  Is  the  babe  young  ?  When  I 
behold  it,  it  seems  more  venerable  than  the  oldest  man ; 
it  is  more  ancient  than  Nestor  or  the  Sibyls,  and  bears 
the  wrinkles  of  father  Saturn  himself.  And  do  we  live 
but  in  the  present  ?  How  broad  a  line  is  that  ?  I  sit  now 
on  a  stump  whose  rings  number  centuries  of  growth.  If 
I  look  around  I  see  that  the  soil  is  composed  of  the 
remains  of  just  such  stumps,  ancestors  to  this.  The 
earth  is  covered  with  mould.  I  thrust  this  stick  many 
aeons  deep  into  its  surface,  and  with  my  heel  make  a 
deeper  furrow  than  the  elements  have  ploughed  here  for 
a  thousand  years.  If  I  listen,  I  hear  the  peep  of  frogs 
which  is  older  than  the  slime  of  Egypt,  and  the  distant 
drumming  of  a  partridge  on  a  log,  as  if  it  were  the  pulse- 
beat  of  the  summer  air.  I  raise  my  fairest  and  freshest 
flowers  in  the  old  mould.  Why,  what  we  would  fain  call 
new  is  not  skin  deep ;  the  earth  is  not  yet  stained  by  it. 
It  is  not  the  fertile  ground  which  we  walk  on,  but  the 
leaves  which  flutter  over  our  heads.  The  newest  is  but 
the  oldest  made  visible  to  our  senses.  When  we  dig  up 
the  soil  from  a  thousand  feet  below  the  surface,  we  call 
it  new,  and  the  plants  which  spring  from  it;  and  when 
our  vision  pierces  deeper  into  space,  and  detects  a 


MONDAY  161 

remoter  star,  we  call  that  new  also.  The  place  where 
we  sit  is  called  Hudson,  —  once  it  was  Nottingham,  — 
once  — 

We  should  read  history  as  little  critically  as  we  con 
sider  the  landscape,  and  be  more  interested  by  the 
atmospheric  tints  and  various  lights  and  shades  which 
the  intervening  spaces  create  than  by  its  groundwork  and 
composition.  It  is  the  morning  now  turned  evening  and 
seen  in  the  west,  —  the  same  sun,  but  a  new  light  and 
atmosphere.  Its  beauty  is  like  the  sunset;  not  a  fresco 
painting  on  a  wall,  flat  and  bounded,  but  atmospheric 
and  roving  or  free.  In  reality,  history  fluctuates  as  the 
face  of  the  landscape  from  morning  to  evening.  What  is 
of  moment  is  its  hue  and  color.  Time  hides  no  treasures; 
we  want  not  its  then,  but  its  now.  We  do  not  complain 
that  the  mountains  in  the  horizon  are  blue  and  indis 
tinct;  they  are  the  more  like  the  heavens. 

Of  what  moment  are  facts  that  can  be  lost,  —  which 
need  to  be  commemorated  ?  The  monument  of  death 
will  outlast  the  memory  of  the  dead.  The  Pyramids  do 
not  tell  the  tale  which  was  confided  to  them ;  the  living 
fact  commemorates  itself.  Why  look  in  the  dark  for 
light  ?  Strictly  speaking,  the  historical  societies  have 
not  recovered  one  fact  from  oblivion,  but  are  them 
selves  instead  of  the  fact  that  is  lost.  The  researcher 
is  more  memorable  than  the  researched.  The  crowd 
stood  admiring  the  mist  and  the  dim  outlines  of  the  trees 
seen  through  it,  when  one  of  their  number  advanced  to 
explore  the  phenomenon,  and  with  fresh  admiration  all 
eyes  were  turned  on  his  dimly  retreating  figure.  It  is 


162  A  WEEK 

astonishing  with  how  little  cooperation  of  the  societies 
the  past  is  remembered.  Its  story  has  indeed  had 
another  muse  than  has  been  assigned  it.  There  is  a 
good  instance  of  the  manner  hi  which  all  history  be 
gan,  in  Alwakidis'  Arabian  Chronicle:  "  I  was  informed 
by  Ahmed  Almatin  Aljorhami,  who  had  it  from  Rephaa 
Ebn  Kais  Aldmiri,  who  had  it  from  Saiph  Ebn  Fabalah 
Alchatquarmi,  who  had  it  from  Thabet  Ebn  Alkamah, 
who  said  he  was  present  at  the  action."  These  fathers 
of  history  were  not  anxious  to  preserve,  but  to  learn  the 
fact;  and  hence  it  was  not  forgotten.  Critical  acumen  is 
exerted  in  vain  to  uncover  the  past;  the  past  cannot  be 
presented;  we  cannot  know  what  we  are  not.  But  one 
veil  hangs  over  past,  present,  and  future,  and  it  is  the 
province  of  the  historian  to  find  out,  not  what  was,  but 
what  is.  Where  a  battle  has  been  fought,  you  will  find 
nothing  but  the  bones  of  men  and  beasts;  where  a  battle 
is  being  fought,  there  are  hearts  beating.  We  will  sit  on  a 
mound  and  muse,  and  not  try  to  make  these  skeletons 
stand  on  their  legs  again.  Does  Nature  remember,  think 
you,  that  they  were  men,  or  not  rather  that  they  are 
bones  ? 

Ancient  history  has  an  air  of  antiquity.  It  should  be 
more  modern.  It  is  written  as  if  the  spectator  should  be 
thinking  of  the  backside  of  the  picture  on  the  wall,  or 
as  if  the  author  expected  that  the  dead  would  be  his 
readers,  and  wished  to  detail  to  them  their  own  expe 
rience.  Men  seem  anxious  to  accomplish  an  orderly 
retreat  through  the  centuries,  earnestly  rebuilding  the 
works  behind,  as  they  are  battered  down  by  the  en 
croachments  of  time;  but  while  they  loiter,  they  and 


MONDAY  163 

their  works  both  fall  a  prey  to  the  arch  enemy.  History 
has  neither  the  venerableness  of  antiquity,  nor  the  fresh 
ness  of  the  modern.  It  does  as  if  it  would  go  to  the  begin 
ning  of  things,  which  natural  history  might  with  reason 
assume  to  do;  but  consider  the  Universal  History,  and 
then  tell  us,  —  when  did  burdock  and  plantain  sprout 
first  ?  It  has  been  so  written,  for  the  most  part,  that  the 
times  it  describes  are  with  remarkable  propriety  called 
dark  ages.  They  are  dark,  as  one  has  observed,  because 
we  are  so  in  the  dark  about  them.  The  sun  rarely  shines 
in  history,  what  with  the  dust  and  confusion;  and  when 
we  meet  with  any  cheering  fact  which  implies  the  pre 
sence  of  this  luminary,  we  excerpt  and  modernize  it.  As 
when  we  read  in  the  history  of  the  Saxons  that  Edwin  of 
Northumbria  "  caused  stakes  to  be  fixed  in  the  highways 
where  he  had  seen  a  clear  spring,"  and  "brazen  dishes 
were  chained  to  them  to  refresh  the  weary  sojourner, 
whose  fatigues  Edwin  had  himself  experienced."  This 
is  worth  all  Arthur's  twelve  battles. 

"Thro'  the  shadow  of  the  globe  we  sweep  into  the  younger  day; 
Better  fifty  years  of  Europe  than  a  cycle  of  Cathay." 
Than  fifty  years  of  Europe  better  one  New  England  ray ! 

Biography,  too,  is  liable  to  the  same  objection;  it 
should  be  autobiography.  Let  us  not,  as  the  Germans 
advise,  endeavor  to  go  abroad  and  vex  our  bowels  that 
we  may  be  somebody  else  to  explain  him.  If  I  am  not  I, 
who  will  be  ? 

But  it  is  fit  that  the  Past  should  be  dark;  though 
the  darkness  is  not  so  much  a  quality  of  the  past  as  of 
tradition.  It  is  not  a  distance  of  time,  but  a  distance  of 
relation,  which  makes  thus  dusky  its  memorials.  What 


164  A  WEEK 

is  near  to  the  heart  of  this  generation  is  fair  and  bright 
still.  Greece  lies  outspread  fair  and  sunshiny  in  floods 
of  light,  for  there  is  the  sun  and  daylight  in  her  literature 
and  art.  Homer  does  not  allow  us  to  forget  that  the  sun 
shone,  —  nor  Phidias,  nor  the  Parthenon.  Yet  no  era 
has  been  wholly  dark,  nor  will  we  too  hastily  submit  to 
the  historian,  and  congratulate  ourselves  on  a  blaze  of 
light.  If  we  could  pierce  the  obscurity  of  those  remote 
years,  we  should  find  it  light  enough;  only  there  is  not 
our  day.  Some  creatures  are  made  to  see  in  the  dark. 
There  has  always  been  the  same  amount  of  light  in  the 
world.  The  new  and  missing  stars,  the  comets  and 
eclipses,  do  not  affect  the  general  illumination,  for  only 
our  glasses  appreciate  them.  The  eyes  of  the  oldest 
fossil  remains,  they  tell  us,  indicate  that  the  same  laws 
of  light  prevailed  then  as  now.  Always  the  laws  of  light 
are  the  same,  but  the  modes  and  degrees  of  seeing  vary. 
The  gods  are  partial  to  no  era,  but  steadily  shines  their 
light  in  the  heavens,  while  the  eye  of  the  beholder  is 
turned  to  stone.  There  was  but  the  sun  and  the  eye 
from  the  first.  The  ages  have  not  added  a  new  ray  to  the 
one,  nor  altered  a  fibre  of  the  other. 

If  we  will  admit  time  into  our  thoughts  at  all,  the 
mythologies,  those  vestiges  of  ancient  poems,  wrecks 
of  poems,  so  to  speak,  the  world's  inheritance,  still 
reflecting  some  of  their  original  splendor,  like  the  frag 
ments  of  clouds  tinted  by  the  rays  of  the  departed  sun; 
reaching  into  the  latest  summer  day,  and  allying  this 
hour  to  the  morning  of  creation;  as  the  poet  sings:  — 

"Fragments  of  the  lofty  strain 
Float  down  the  tide  of  years, 


MONDAY  165 

As  buoyant  on  the  stormy  main 
A  parted  wreck  appears,"  — 

these  are  the  materials  and  hints  for  a  history  of  the 
rise  and  progress  of  the  race;  how,  from  the  condition 
of  ants,  it  arrived  at  the  condition  of  men,  and  arts  were 
gradually  invented.  Let  a  thousand  surmises  shed  some 
light  on  this  story.  We  will  not  be  confined  by  historical, 
even  geological  periods  which  would  allow  us  to  doubt 
of  a  progress  in  human  affairs.  If  we  rise  above  this  wis 
dom  for  the  day,  we  shall  expect  that  this  morning  of  the 
race,  in  which  it  has  been  supplied  with  the  simplest 
necessaries,  with  corn,  and  wine,  and  honey,  and  oil, 
and  fire,  and  articulate  speech,  and  agricultural  and 
other  arts,  reared  up  by  degrees  from  the  condition  of 
ants  to  men,  will  be  succeeded  by  a  day  of  equally  pro 
gressive  splendor;  that,  in  the  lapse  of  the  divine  periods, 
other  divine  agents  and  godlike  men  will  assist  to  elevate 
the  race  as  much  above  its  present  condition. 
But  we  do  not  know  much  about  it. 

Thus  did  one  voyageur  waking  dream,  while  his  com 
panion  slumbered  on  the  bank.  Suddenly  a  boatman's 
horn  was  heard  echoing  from  shore  to  shore,  to  give 
notice  of  his  approach  to  the  farmer's  wife  with  whom 
he  was  to  take  his  dinner,  though  in  that  place  only 
muskrats  and  kingfishers  seemed  to  hear.  The  current 
of  our  reflections  and  our  slumbers  being  thus  disturbed, 
we  weighed  anchor  once  more. 

As  we  proceeded  on  our  way  in  the  afternoon,  the 
western  bank  became  lower,  or  receded  farther  from  the 
channel  in  some  places,  leaving  a  few  trees  only  to  fringe 


166  A  WEEK 

the  water's  edge;  while  the  eastern  rose  abruptly  here 
and  there  into  wooded  hills  fifty  or  sixty  feet  high.  The 
bass  (Tilia  Americana),  also  called  the  lime  or  linden, 
which  was  a  new  tree  to  us,  overhung  the  water  with  its 
broad  and  rounded  leaf,  interspersed  with  clusters  of 
small  hard  berries  now  nearly  ripe,  and  made  an  agree 
able  shade  for  us  sailors.  The  inner  bark  of  this  genus 
is  the  bast,  the  material  of  the  fisherman's  matting,  and 
the  ropes  and  peasant's  shoes  of  which  the  Russians 
make  so  much  use,  and  also  of  nets  and  a  coarse  cloth 
in  some  places.  According  to  poets,  this  was  once 
Philyra,  one  of  the  Oceanides.  The  ancients  are  said  to 
have  used  its  bark  for  the  roofs  of  cottages,  for  baskets, 
and  for  a  kind  of  paper  called  Philyra.  They  also  made 
bucklers  of  its  wood,  "on  account  of  its  flexibility,  light 
ness,  and  resiliency."  It  was  once  much  used  for  carving, 
and  is  still  in  demand  for  sounding-boards  of  piano 
fortes  and  panels  of  carriages,  and  for  various  uses  for 
which  toughness  and  flexibility  are  required.  Baskets 
and  cradles  are  made  of  the  twigs.  Its  sap  affords  sugar, 
and  the  honey  made  from  its  flowers  is  said  to  be  pre 
ferred  to  any  other.  Its  leaves  are  in  some  countries 
given  to  cattle,  a  kind  of  chocolate  has  been  made  of  its 
fruit,  a  medicine  has  been  prepared  from  an  infusion  of 
its  flowers,  and  finally,  the  charcoal  made  of  its  wood  is 
greatly  valued  for  gunpowder. 

The  sight  of  this  tree  reminded  us  that  we  had 
reached  a  strange  land  to  us.  As  we  sailed  under  this 
canopy  of  leaves,  we  saw  the  sky  through  its  chinks,  and, 
as  it  were,  the  meaning  and  idea  of  the  tree  stamped  in 
a  thousand  hieroglyphics  on  the  heavens.  The  universe 


MONDAY  167 

is  so  aptly  fitted  to  our  organization  that  the  eye  wanders 
and  reposes  at  the  same  time.  On  every  side  there  is 
something  to  soothe  and  refresh  this  sense.  Look  up  at 
the  tree-tops,  and  see  how  finely  Nature  finishes  off  her 
work  there.  See  how  the  pines  spire  without  end  higher 
and  higher,  and  make  a  graceful  fringe  to  the  earth. 
And  who  shall  count  the  finer  cobwebs  that  soar  and 
float  away  from  their  utmost  post,  and  the  myriad  insects 
that  dodge  between  them  ?  Leaves  are  of  more  various 
forms  than  the  alphabets  of  all  languages  put  together; 
of  the  oaks  alone  there  are  hardly  two  alike,  and  each 
expresses  its  own  character. 

In  all  her  products,  Nature  only  develops  her  simplest 
germs.  One  would  say  that  it  was  no  great  stretch  of 
invention  to  create  birds.  The  hawk  which  now  takes 
his  flight  over  the  top  of  the  wood  was  at  first,  perchance, 
only  a  leaf  which  fluttered  in  its  aisles.  From  rustling 
leaves  she  came  in  the  course  of  ages  to  the  loftier  flight 
and  clear  carol  of  the  bird. 

Salmon  Brook  comes  in  from  the  west  under  the  rail 
road,  a  mile  and  a  half  below  the  village  of  Nashua. 
We  rowed  up  far  enough  into  the  meadows  which  border 
it  to  learn  its  piscatorial  history  from  a  haymaker  on  its 
banks.  He  told  us  that  the  silver  eel  was  formerly  abun 
dant  here,  and  pointed  to  some  sunken  creels  at  its 
mouth.  This  man's  memory  and  imagination  were  fer 
tile  in  fishermen's  tales  of  floating  isles  in  bottomless 
ponds,  and  of  lakes  mysteriously  stocked  with  fishes, 
and  would  have  kept  us  till  nightfall  to  listen,  but  we 
could  not  afford  to  loiter  in  this  roadstead,  and  so  stood 
out  to  our  sea  again.  Though  we  never  trod  in  those 


168  A  WEEK 

meadows,   but   only  touched   their   margin   with   our 
hands,  we  still  retain  a  pleasant  memory  of  them. 

Salmon  Brook,  whose  name  is  said  to  be  a  translation 
from  the  Indian,  was  a  favorite  haunt  of  the  aborigines. 
Here,  too,  the  first  white  settlers  of  Nashua  planted,  and 
some  dents  in  the  earth  where  their  houses  stood  and  the 
wrecks  of  ancient  apple  trees  are  still  visible.  About  one 
mile  up  this  stream  stood  the  house  of  old  John  Love- 
well,  who  was  an  ensign  in  the  army  of  Oliver  Cromwell, 
and  the  father  of  "famous  Captain  Lovewell."  He  set 
tled  here  before  1690,  and  died  about  1754,  at  the  age 
of  one  hundred  and  twenty  years.  He  is  thought  to  have 
been  engaged  in  the  famous  Narragansett  swamp  fight, 
which  took  place  in  1675,  before  he  came  here.  The 
Indians  are  said  to  have  spared  him  in  succeeding  wars 
on  account  of  his  kindness  to  them.  Even  in  1700  he 
was  so  old  and  gray-headed  that  his  scalp  was  worth 
nothing,  since  the  French  governor  offered  no  bounty  for 
such.  I  have  stood  in  the  dent  of  his  cellar  on  the  bank 
of  the  brook,  and  talked  there  with  one  whose  grandfa 
ther  had — whose  father  might  have — talked  with  Love- 
well.  Here  also  he  had  a  mill  in  his  old  age,  and  kept  a 
small  store.  He  was  remembered  by  some  who  were 
recently  living,  as  a  hale  old  man  who  drove  the  boys  out 
of  his  orchard  with  his  cane.  Consider  the  triumphs  of 
the  mortal  man,  and  what  poor  trophies  it  would  have 
to  show,  to  wit:  He  cobbled  shoes  without  glasses  at  a 
hundred,  and  cut  a  handsome  swath  at  a  hundred  and 
five !  Lovewell's  house  is  said  to  have  been  the  first 
which  Mrs.  Dustan  reached  on  her  escape  from  the 
Indians.  Here,  probably,  the  hero  of  Pequawket  was 


MONDAY  169 

born  and  bred.  Close  by  may  be  seen  the  cellar  and 
the  gravestone  of  Joseph  Hassell,  who,  as  is  elsewhere 
recorded,  with  his  wife  Anna,  and  son  Benjamin,  and 
Mary  Marks,  "were  slain  by  our  Indian  enemies  on 
September  2,  [1691],  in  the  evening."  As  Gookin 
observed  on  a  previous  occasion,  "The  Indian  rod  upon 
the  English  backs  had  not  yet  done  God's  errand." 
Salmon  Brook  near  its  mouth  is  still  a  solitary  stream, 
meandering  through  woods  and  meadows,  while  the 
then  uninhabited  mouth  of  the  Nashua  now  resounds 
with  the  din  of  a  manufacturing  town. 

A  stream  from  Otternic  Pond  in  Hudson  comes  in  just 
above  Salmon  Brook,  on  the  opposite  side.  There  was 
a  good  view  of  Uncannunuc,  the  most  conspicuous 
mountain  in  these  parts,  from  the  bank  here,  seen  rising 
over  the  west  end  of  the  bridge  above.  We  soon  after 
passed  the  village  of  Nashua,  on  the  river  of  the  same 
name,  where  there  is  a  covered  bridge  over  the  Mem- 
mack.  The  Nashua,  which  is  one  of  the  largest  tribu 
taries,  flows  from  Wachusett  Mountain,  through  Lan 
caster,  Groton,  and  other  towns,  where  it  has  formed 
well-known  elm-shaded  meadows,  but  near  its  mouth 
it  is  obstructed  by  falls  and  factories,  and  did  not  tempt 
us  to  explore  it. 

Far  away  from  here,  in  Lancaster,  with  another 
companion,  I  have  crossed  the  broad  valley  of  the 
Nashua,  over  which  we  had  so  long  looked  westward 
from  the  Concord  hills  without  seeing  it  to  the  blue 
mountains  in  the  horizon.  So  many  streams,  so  many 
meadows  and  woods  and  quiet  dwellings  of  men  had 
lain  concealed  between  us  and  those  Delectable  Moun- 


170  A  WEEK 

tains;  —  from  yonder  hill  on  the  road  to  Tyngsborough 
you  may  get  a  good  view  of  them.  There  where  it  seemed 
uninterrupted  forest  to  our  youthful  eyes,  between  two 
neighboring  pines  in  the  horizon,  lay  the  valley  of  the 
Nashua,  and  this  very  stream  was  even  then  winding  at 
its  bottom,  and  then,  as  now,  it  was  here  silently  min 
gling  its  waters  with  the  Merrimack.  The  clouds  which 
floated  over  its  meadows  and  were  born  there,  seen  far 
in  the  west,  gilded  by  the  rays  of  the  setting  sun,  had 
adorned  a  thousand  evening  skies  for  us.  But  as  it  were 
by  a  turf  wall  this  valley  was  concealed,  and  in  our  jour 
ney  to  those  hills  it  was  first  gradually  revealed  to  us. 
Summer  and  winter  our  eyes  had  rested  on  the  dim 
outline  of  the  mountains,  to  which  distance  and  indis 
tinctness  lent  a  grandeur  not  their  own,  so  that  they 
served  to  interpret  all  the  allusions  of  poets  and  travelers. 
Standing  on  the  Concord  Cliffs,  we  thus  spoke  our  mind 
to  them:  — 

With  frontier  strength  ye  stand  your  ground, 

With  grand  content  ye  circle  round, 

Tumultuous  silence  for  all  sound, 

Ye  distant  nursery  of  rills, 

Monadnock  and  the  Peterborough  Hills;  — 

Firm  argument  that  never  stirs, 

Outcircling  the  philosophers,  — 

Like  some  vast  fleet, 

Sailing  through  rain  and  sleet, 

Through  winter's  cold  and  summer's  heat; 

Still  holding  on  upon  your  high  emprise, 
Until  ye  find  a  shore  amid  the  skies; 
Not  skulking  close  to  land, 
With  cargo  contraband, 


MONDAY  171 

For  they  who  sent  a  venture  out  by  ye 

Have  set  the  Sun  to  see 

Their  honesty. 

Ships  of  the  line,  each  one, 

Ye  westward  run, 

Convoying  clouds, 

Which  cluster  in  your  shrouds, 

Always  before  the  gale, 

Under  a  press  of  sail, 

With  weight  of  metal  all  untold,  — 

I  seem  to  feel  ye  in  my  firm  seat  here, 

Immeasurable  depth  of  hold, 

And  breadth  of  beam,  and  length  of  running  gear. 

Methinks  ye  take  luxurious  pleasure 

In  your  novel  Western  leisure; 

So  cool  your  brows  and  freshly  blue, 

As  Time  had  naught  for  ye  to  do: 

For  ye  lie  at  your  length, 

An  unappropriated  strength, 

Unhewn  primeval  timber, 

For  knees  so  stiff,  for  masts  so  limber; 

The  stock  of  which  new  earths  are  made, 

One  day  to  be  our  Western  trade, 

Fit  for  the  stanchions  of  a  world 

Which  through  the  seas  of  space  is  hurled. 

While  we  enjoy  a  lingering  ray, 

Ye  still  o'ertop  the  western  day, 

Reposing  yonder  on  God's  croft 

Like  solid  stacks  of  hay; 

So  bold  a  line  as  ne'er  was  writ 

On  any  page  by  human  wit; 

The  forest  glows  as  if 

An  enemy's  camp-fires  shone 

Along  the  horizon, 

Or  the  day's  funeral  pyre 

Were  lighted  there; 


172  A  WEEK 

Edged  with  silver  and  with  gold, 

The  clouds  hang  o'er  in  damask  fold, 

And  with  such  depth  of  amber  light 

The  west  is  dight, 

Where  still  a  few  rays  slant, 

That  even  Heaven  seems  extravagant. 

Watatic  Hill 

Lies  on  the  horizon's  sill 

Like  a  child's  toy  left  overnight, 

And  other  duds  to  left  and  right, 

On  the  earth's  edge,  mountains  and  trees 

Stand  as  they  were  on  air  graven, 

Or  as  the  vessels  in  a  haven 

Await  the  morning  breeze. 

I  fancy  even 

Through  your  defiles  windeth  the  way  to  heaven; 

And  yonder  still,  in  spite  of  history's  page, 

Linger  the  golden  and  the  silver  age; 

Upon  the  laboring  gale 

The  news  of  future  centuries  is  brought, 

And  of  new  dynasties  of  thought, 

From  your  remotest  vale. 

But  special  I  remember  thee, 

Wachusett,  who  like  me 

Standest  alone  without  society. 

Thy  far  blue  eye, 

A  remnant  of  the  sky, 

Seen  through  the  clearing  or  the  gorge, 

Or  from  the  windows  of  the  forge, 

Doth  leaven  all  it  passes  by. 

Nothing  is  true 

But  stands  'tween  me  and  you, 

Thou  Western  pioneer, 

Who  know'st  not  shame  nor  fear, 

By  venturous  spirit  driven 

Under  the  eaves  of  heaven; 

And  canst  expand  thee  there, 


MONDAY  173 

And  breathe  enough  of  air? 

Even  beyond  the  West 

Thou  migratest, 

Into  unclouded  tracts, 

Without  a  pilgrim's  axe, 

Cleaving  thy  road  on  high 

With  thy  well-tempered  brow, 

And  mak'st  thyself  a  clearing  in  the  sky. 

Upholding  heaven,  holding  down  earth, 

Thy  pastime  from  thy  birth; 

Not  steadied  by  the  one,  nor  leaning  on  the  other, 

May  I  approve  myself  thy  worthy  brother  ! 

At  length,  like  Rasselas  and  other  inhabitants  of 
happy  valleys,  we  had  resolved  to  scale  the  blue  wall 
which  bounded  the  western  horizon,  though  not  without 
misgivings  that  thereafter  no  visible  fairyland  would 
exist  for  us.  But  it  would  be  long  to  tell  of  our  adven 
tures,  and  we  have  no  time  this  afternoon,  transporting 
ourselves  in  imagination  up  this  hazy  Nashua  valley, 
to  go  over  again  that  pilgrimage.  We  have  since  made 
many  similar  excursions  to  the  principal  mountains  of 
New  England  and  New  York,  and  even  far  in  the  wil 
derness,  and  have  passed  a  night  on  the  summit  of  many 
of  them.  And  now,  when  we  look  again  westward  from 
our  native  hills,  Wachusett  and  Monadnock  have  re 
treated  once  more  among  the  blue  and  fabulous  moun 
tains  in  the  horizon,  though  our  eyes  rest  on  the  very 
rocks  on  both  of  them  where  we  have  pitched  our  tent 
for  a  night,  and  boiled  our  hasty-pudding  amid  the 
clouds. 

As  late  as  1724  there  was  no  house  on  the  north  side 
of  the  Nashua,  but  only  scattered  wigwams  and  grisly 


174  A  WEEK 

forests  between  this  frontier  and  Canada.  In  September 
of  that  year,  two  men  who  were  engaged  in  making  tur 
pentine  on  that  side  —  for  such  were  the  first  enterprises 
in  the  wilderness  —  were  taken  captive  and  carried  to 
Canada  by  a  party  of  thirty  Indians.  Ten  of  the  inhab 
itants  of  Dunstable,  going  to  look  for  them,  found  the 
hoops  of  their  barrel  cut,  and  the  turpentine  spread  on 
the  ground.  I  have  been  told  by  an  inhabitant  of  Tyngs- 
borough,  who  had  the  story  from  his  ancestors,  that  one 
of  these  captives,  when  the  Indians  were  about  to  upset 
his  barrel  of  turpentine,  seized  a  pine  knot  and,  flourish 
ing  it,  swore  so  resolutely  that  he  would  kill  the  first  who 
touched  it,  that  they  refrained,  and  when  at  length  he 
returned  from  Canada  he  found  it  still  standing.  Per 
haps  there  was  more  than  one  barrel.  However  this  may 
have  been,  the  scouts  knew  by  marks  on  the  trees,  made 
with  coal  mixed  with  grease,  that  the  men  were  not 
killed,  but  taken  prisoners.  One  of  the  company,  named 
Farwell,  perceiving  that  the  turpentine  had  not  done 
spreading,  concluded  that  the  Indians  had  been  gone 
but  a  short  time,  and  they  accordingly  went  in  instant 
pursuit.  Contrary  to  the  advice  of  Farwell,  following 
directly  on  their  trail  up  the  Merrimack,  they  fell  into  an 
ambuscade  near  Thornton's  Ferry,  in  the  present  town 
of  Merrimack,  and  nine  were  killed,  only  one,  Farwell, 
escaping  after  a  vigorous  pursuit.  The  men  of  Dun- 
stable  went  out  and  picked  up  their  bodies,  and  carried 
them  all  down  to  Dunstable  and  buried  them.  It  is 
almost  word  for  word  as  in  the  Robin  Hood  ballad :  — 

"They  carried  these  foresters  into  fair  Nottingham, 
As  many  there  did  know, 


MONDAY  175 

They  digged  them  graves  in  their  churchyard, 
And  they  buried  them  all  a-row." 

Nottingham  is  only  the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  they 
were  not  exactly  all  a-row.  You  may  read  in  the  church 
yard  at  Dunstable,  under  the  "  Memento  Mori,"  and  the 
name  of  one  of  them,  how  they  "  departed  this  life,"  and 

"This  man  with  seven  more  that  lies  in 

this  grave  was  slew  all  in  a  day  by 

the  Indians." 

The  stones  of  some  others  of  the  company  stand  around 
the  common  grave  with  their  separate  inscriptions. 
Eight  were  buried  here,  but  nine  were  killed,  according 
to  the  best  authorities. 

"Gentle  river,  gentle  river, 

Lo,  thy  streams  are  stained  with  gore, 
Many  a  brave  and  noble  captain 
Floats  along  thy  willowed  shore. 

"All  beside  thy  limpid  waters, 

All  beside  thy  sands  so  bright, 
Indian  Chiefs  and  Christian  warriors 
Joined  in  fierce  and  mortal  fight." 

It  is  related  in  the  History  of  Dunstable  that  on  the 
return  of  Farwell  the  Indians  were  engaged  by  a  fresh 
party,  which  they  compelled  to  retreat,  and  pursued  as 
far  as  the  Nashua,  where  they  fought  across  the  stream 
at  its  mouth.  After  the  departure  of  the  Indians,  the 
figure  of  an  Indian's  head  was  found  carved  by  them  on 
a  large  tree  by  the  shore,  which  circumstance  has  given 
its  name  to  this  part  of  the  village  of  Nashville,  —  the 
"  Indian  Head."  "  It  was  observed  by  some  judicious," 
says  Gookin,  referring  to  Philip's  War,  "that  at  the 


176  A  WEEK 

beginning  of  the  war  the  English  soldiers  made  a 
/  nothing  of  the  Indians,  and  many  spake  words  to  this 
effect,  that  one  Englishman  was  sufficient  to  chase  ten 
Indians ;  many  reckoned  it  was  no  other  but  Veni,  vidi, 
vici"  But  we  may  conclude  that  the  judicious  would  by 
this  time  have  made  a  different  observation. 

Farwell  appears  to  have  been  the  only  one  who  had 
studied  his  profession,  and  understood  the  business  of 
hunting  Indians.  He  lived  to  fight  another  day,  for  the 
next  year  he  was  Love  well's  lieutenant  at  Pequawket, 
but  that  time,  as  we  have  related,  he  left  his  bones  in  the 
wilderness.  His  name  still  reminds  us  of  twilight  days 
and  forest  scouts  on  Indian  trails,  with  an  uneasy  scalp ; 
—  an  indispensable  hero  to  New  England.  As  the  more 
recent  poet  of  Lovewell's  fight  has  sung,  halting  a  little 
but  bravely  still,  — 

"Then  did  the  crimson  streams  that  flowed 

Seem  like  the  waters  of  the  brook, 

That  brightly  shine,  that  loudly  dash, 

Far  down  the  cliffs  of  Agiochook." 

These  battles  sound  incredible  to  us.  I  think  that 
posterity  will  doubt  if  such  things  ever  were,  —  if  our 
bold  ancestors  who  settled  this  land  were  not  struggling 
rather  with  the  forest  shadows,  and  not  with  a  copper- 
colored  race  of  men.  They  were  vapors,  fever  and  ague 
of  the  unsettled  woods.  Now,  only  a  few  arrowheads 
are  turned  up  by  the  plow.  In  the  Pelasgic,  the  Etrus 
can,  or  the  British  story,  there  is  nothing  so  shadowy 
and  unreal. 

It  is  a  wild  and  antiquated  looking  graveyard,  over- 


MONDAY  177 

grown  with  bushes,  on  the  highroad,  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  from  and  overlooking  the  Merrimack,  with  a 
deserted  mill-stream  bounding  it  on  one  side,  where  lie 
the  earthly  remains  of  the  ancient  inhabitants  of  Dun- 
stable.  We  passed  it  three  or  four  miles  below  here.  You 
may  read  there  the  names  of  Lovewell,  Farwell,  and 
many  others  whose  families  were  distinguished  in  Indian 
warfare.  We  noticed  there  two  large  masses  of  granite 
more  than  a  foot  thick  and  rudely  squared,  lying  flat  on 
the  ground  over  the  remains  of  the  first  pastor  and  his 
wife. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  dead  lie  everywhere  under 
stones,  — 

"Strata  jacent  passim  suo  quaeque  sub"  lapide  — 
corpora,  we  might  say,  if  the  measure  allowed.  When 
the  stone  is  a  slight  one,  it  does  not  oppress  the  spirits  of 
the  traveler  to  meditate  by  it;  but  these  did  seem  a  little 
heathenish  to  us;  and  so  are  all  large  monuments  over 
men's  bodies,  from  the  Pyramids  down.  A  monument 
should  at  least  be  "  star-y-pointing,"  to  indicate  whither 
the  spirit  is  gone,  and  not  prostrate,  like  the  body  it  has 
deserted.  There  have  been  some  nations  who  could  do 
nothing  but  construct  tombs,  and  these  are  the  only 
traces  which  they  have  left.  They  are  the  heathen.  But 
why  these  stones,  so  upright  and  emphatic,  like  excla 
mation-points  ?  What  was  there  so  remarkable  that 
lived?  Why  should  the  monument  be  so  much  more 
enduring  than  the  fame  which  it  is  designed  to  perpetu 
ate,  —  a  stone  to  a  bone  ?  "  Here  lies,"  —  "  Here  lies ; " 
—  why  do  they  not  sometimes  write,  There  rises  ?  Is  it 


178  A  WEEK 

a  monument  to  the  body  only  that  is  intended  ?  "  Having 
reached  the  term  of  his  natural  life; "  —  would  it  not  be 
truer  to  say,  Having  reached  the  term  of  his  unnatural 
life  ?  The  rarest  quality  in  an  epitaph  is  truth.  If  any 
character  is  given,  it  should  be  as  severely  true  as  the 
decision  of  the  three  judges  below,  and  not  the  partial 
testimony  of  friends.  Friends  and  contemporaries  should 
supply  only  the  name  and  date,  and  leave  it  to  posterity 
to  write  the  epitaph. 

Here  lies  an  honest  man, 
Rear-Admiral  Van. 

Faith,  then  ye  have 

Two  in  one  grave, 

For  in  his  favor, 

Here  too  lies  the  Engraver. 

Fame  itself  is  but  an  epitaph;  as  late,  as  false,  as  true. 
But  they  only  are  the  true  epitaphs  which  Old  Mortality 
retouches. 

A  man  might  well  pray  that  he  may  not  taboo  or  curse 
any  portion  of  nature  by  being  buried  in  it.  For  the 
most  part,  the  best  man's  spirit  makes  a  fearful  sprite  to 
haunt  his  grave,  and  it  is  therefore  much  to  the  credit 
of  Little  John,  the  famous  follower  of  Robin  Hood,  and 
reflecting  favorably  on  his  character,  that  his  grave  was 
"  long  celebrous  for  the  yielding  of  excellent  whetstones." 
I  confess  that  I  have  but  little  love  for  such  collections 
as  they  have  at  the  Catacombs,  Pere  la  Chaise,  Mount 
Auburn,  and  even  this  Dunstable  graveyard.  At  any 
rate,  nothing  but  great  antiquity  can  make  graveyards 
interesting  to  me.  I  have  no  friends  there.  It  may  be 


MONDAY  179 

that  I  am  not  competent  to  write  the  poetry  of  the  grave. 
The  farmer  who  has  skimmed  his  farm  might  perchance 
leave  his  body  to  Nature  to  be  plowed  in,  and  in  some 
measure  restore  its  fertility.  We  should  not  retard  but 
forward  her  economies. 

Soon  the  village  of  Nashua  was  out  of  sight,  and  the 
woods  were  gained  again,  and  we  rowed  slowly  on  before 
sunset,  looking  for  a  solitary  place  in  which  to  spend  the 
night.  A  few  evening  clouds  began  to  be  reflected  in  the 
water,  and  the  surface  was  dimpled  only  here  and  there 
by  a  muskrat  crossing  the  stream.  We  camped  at  length 
near  Penichook  Brook,  on  the  confines  of  what  is  now 
Nashville,  by  a  deep  ravine,  under  the  skirts  of  a  pine 
wood,  where  the  dead  pine  leaves  were  our  carpet,  and 
their  tawny  boughs  stretched  overhead.  But  fire  and 
smoke  soon  tamed  the  scene;  the  rocks  consented  to 
be  our  walls,  and  the  pines  our  roof.  A  woodside  was 
already  the  fittest  locality  for  us. 

The  wilderness  is  near  as  well  as  dear  to  every  man. 
Even  the  oldest  villages  are  indebted  to  the  border  of 
wild  wood  which  surrounds  them,  more  than  to  the 
gardens  of  men.  There  is  something  indescribably 
inspiriting  and  beautiful  in  the  aspect  of  the  forest 
skirting  and  occasionally  jutting  into  the  midst  of  new 
towns,  which,  like  the  sand-heaps  of  fresh  fox-burrows, 
have  sprung  up  in  their  midst.  The  very  uprightness 
of  the  pines  and  maples  asserts  the  ancient  rectitude 
and  vigor  of  nature.  Our  lives  need  the  relief  of  such  a 
background,  where  the  pine  flourishes  and  the  jay  still 
screams. 

We  had  found  a  safe  harbor  for  our  boat,  and  as  the 


180  A  WEEK 

sun  was  setting  carried  up  our  furniture,  and  soon 
arranged  our  house  upon  the  bank,  and  while  the  kettle 
steamed  at  the  tent  door,  we  chatted  of  distant  friends 
and  of  the  sights  which  we  were  to  behold,  and  wondered 
which  way  the  towns  lay  from  us.  Our  cocoa  was  soon 
boiled,  and  supper  set  upon  our  chest,  and  we  lengthened 
out  this  meal,  like  old  voyageurs,  with  our  talk.  Mean 
while  we  spread  the  map  on  the  ground,  and  read  in  the 
Gazetteer  when  the  first  settlers  came  here  and  got  a 
township  granted.  Then,  when  supper  was  done  and 
we  had  written  the  journal  of  our  voyage,  we  wrapped 
our  buffaloes  about  us  and  lay  down  with  our  heads 
pillowed  on  our  arms,  listening  awhile  to  the  distant 
baying  of  a  dog,  or  thev  murmurs  of  the  river,  or  to  the 
wind,  which  had  not  gone  to  rest :  — 

The  western  wind  came  lumbering  in, 
Bearing  a  faint  Pacific  din, 
Our  evening  mail,  swift  at  the  call 
Of  its  Postmaster-General; 
Laden  with  news  from  Calif orn', 
Whate'er  transpired  hath  since  mom, 
How  wags  the  world  by  brier  and  brake 
From  hence  to  Athabasca  Lake;  — 

or  half  awake  and  half  asleep,  dreaming  of  a  star  which 
glimmered  through  our  cotton  roof.  Perhaps  at  mid 
night  one  was^  awakened  by  a  cricket  shrilly  singing  on 
his  shoulder,  or  by  a  hunting  spider  in  his  eye,  and  was 
lulled  asleep  again  by  some  streamlet  purling  its  way 
along  at  the  bottom  of  a  wooded  and  rocky  ravine  in  our 
neighborhood.  It  was  pleasant  to  lie  with  our  heads  so 
low  in  the  grass,  and  hear  what  a  tinkling,  ever-busy 


MONDAY  181 

laboratory  it  was.    A  thousand  little  artisans  beat  on 
their  anvils  all  night  long. 

Far  in  the  night,  as  we  were  falling  asleep  on  the  bank 
of  the  Merrimack,  we  heard  some  tyro  beating  a  drum 
incessantly,  in  preparation  for  a  country  muster,  as  we 
learned,  and  we  thought  of  the  line,  — 

"  When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night." 
We  could  have  assured  him  that  his  beat  would  be 
answered,  and  the  forces  be  mustered.  Fear  not,  thou 
drummer  of  the  night ;  we  too  will  be  there.  And  still 
he  drummed  on  in  the  silence  and  the  dark.  This  stray 
sound  from  a  far-off  sphere  came  to  our  ears  from  time 
to  time,  far,  sweet,  and  significant,  and  we  listened  with 
such  an  unprejudiced  sense  as  if  for  the  first  time  we 
heard  at  all.  No  doubt  he  was  an  insignificant  drummer 
enough,  but  his  music  afforded  us  a  prime  and  leisure 
hour,  and  we  felt  that  we  were  in  season  wholly.  These 
simple  sounds  related  us  to  the  stars.  Ay,  there  was  a 
logic  in  them  so  convincing  that  the  combined  sense  of 
mankind  could  never  make  me  doubt  their  conclusions. 
I  stop  my  habitual  thinking,  as  if  the  plow  had  sud 
denly  run  deeper  in  its  furrow  through  the  crust  of  the 
world.  How  can  I  go  on,  who  have  just  stepped  over 
such  a  bottomless  skylight  in  the  bog  of  my  life  ?  Sud 
denly  old  Time  winked  at  me,  —  Ah,  you  know  me,  you 
rogue,  —  and  news  had  come  that  IT  was  well.  That 
ancient  universe  is  in  such  capital  health,  I  think  un 
doubtedly  it  will  never  die.  Heal  yourselves,  doctors; 
by  God  I  live. 

Then  idle  Time  ran  gadding  by 
And  left  me  with  Eternity  alone; 


182  A  WEEK 

I  hear  beyond  the  range  of  sound, 
'A  I  see  beyond  the  verge  of  sight,  — 

I  see,  smell,  taste,  hear,  feel,  that  everlasting  Something 
to  which  we  are  allied,  at  once  our  maker,  our  abode, 
our  destiny,  our  very  Selves ;  the  one  historic  truth,  the 
most  remarkable  fact  which  can  become  the  distinct 
and  uninvited  subject  of  our  thought,  the  actual  glory 
of  the  universe;  the  only  fact  which  a  human  being  can 
not  avoid  recognizing,  or  in  some  way  forget  or  dispense 
with. 

It  doth  expand  my  privacies 
To  all,  and  leave  me  single  in  the  crowd. 

I  have  seen  how  the  foundations  of  the  world  are  laid, 
and  I  have  not  the  least  doubt  that  it  will  stand  a  good 
while. 

Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour, 

And  only  now  my  prime  of  life. 

I  will  not  doubt  the  love  untold, 

Which  not  my  worth  nor  want  hath  bought, 

Which  wooed  me  young  and  wooes  me  old, 

And  to  this  evening  hath  me  brought. 

What  are  ears?  what  is  Time?  that  this  particular 
series  of  sounds  called  a  strain  of  music,  an  invisible 
and  fairy  troop  which  never  brushed  the  dew  from  any 
mead,  can  be  wafted  down  through  the  centuries  from 
Homer  to  me,  and  he  have  been  conversant  with  that 
same  aerial  and  mysterious  charm  which  now  so  tingles 
my  ears  ?  What  a  fine  communication  from  age  to  age, 
of  the  fairest  and  noblest  thoughts,  the  aspirations  of 
ancient  men,  even  such  as  were  never  communicated  by 
speech,  is  music!  It  is  the  flower  of  language,  thought 
colored  and  curved,  fluent  and  flexible,  its  crystal  foun- 


MONDAY  183 

tain  tinged  with  the  sun's  rays,  and  its  purling  ripples 
reflecting  the  grass  and  the  clouds.  A  strain  of  music 
reminds  me  of  a  passage  of  the  Vedas,  and  I  associate 
with  it  the  idea  of  infinite  remoteness,  as  well  as  of  beauty 
and  serenity,  for  to  the  senses  that  is  farthest  from  us 
which  addresses  the  greatest  depth  within  us.  It  teaches 
us  again  and  again  to  trust  the  remotest  and  finest  as  the 
divinest  instinct,  and  makes  a  dream  our  only  real  expe 
rience.  We  feel  a  sad  cheer  when  we  hear  it,  perchance 
because  we  that  hear  are  not  one  with  that  which  is 
heard. 

Therefore  a  torrent  of  sadness  deep 

Through  the  strains  of  thy  triumph  is  heard  to  sweep. 

The  sadness  is  ours.  The  Indian  poet  Calidas  says  in 
the Sacontala:  "Perhaps  the  sadness  of  men  on  seeing 
beautiful  forms  and  hearing  sweet  music  arises  from 
some  faint  remembrance  of  past  joys,  and  the  traces  of 
connections  in  a  former  state  of  existence."  As  polishing 
expresses  the  vein  in  marble,  and  grain  in  wood,  so 
music  brings  out  what  of  heroic  lurks  anywhere.  The 
hero  is  the  sole  patron  of  music.  That  harmony  which 
exists  naturally  between  the  hero's  moods  and  the  uni 
verse,  the  soldier  would  fain  imitate  with  drum  and 
trumpet.  When  we  are  in  health,  all  sounds  fife  and 
drum  for  us;  we  hear  the  notes  of  music  in  the  air,  or 
catch  its  echoes  dying  away  when  we  awake  in  the  dawn. 
Marching  is  when  the  pulse  of  the  hero  beats  in  unison 
with  the  pulse  of  Nature,  and  he  steps  to  the  measure  of 
the  universe;  then  there  is  true  courage  and  invincible 
strength. 

Plutarch  says  that  "  Plato  thinks  the  gods  never  gave 


184  A  WEEK 

men  music,  the  science  of  melody  and  harmony,  for 
mere  delectation  or  to  tickle  the  ear;  but  that  the  dis 
cordant  parts  of  the  circulations  and  beauteous  fabric 
of  the  soul,  and  that  of  it  that  roves  about  the  body, 
and  many  times,  for  want  of  tune  and  air,  breaks  forth 
into  many  extravagances  and  excesses,  might  be  sweetly 
recalled  and  artfully  wound  up  to  their  former  consent 
and  agreement." 

Music  is  the  sound  of  the  universal  laws  promulgated. 
It  is  the  only  assured  tone.  There  are  in  it  such  strains 
as  far  surpass  any  man's  faith  in  the  loftiness  of  his 
destiny.  Things  are  to  be  learned  which  it  will  be  worth 
the  while  to  learn.  Formerly  I  heard  these 

RUMORS   FROM  AN  ^OLIAN   HARP 

There  is  a  vale  which  none  hath  seen, 
Where  foot  of  man  has  never  been, 
Such  as  here  lives  with  toil  and  strife, 
An  anxious  and  a  sinful  life. 

There  every  virtue  has  its  birth, 
Ere  it  descends  upon  the  earth, 
And  thither  every  deed  returns, 
Which  in  the  generous  bosom  burns. 

There  love  is  warm,  and  youth  is  young, 
And  poetry  is  yet  unsung, 
For  Virtue  still  adventures  there, 
And  freely  breathes  her  native  air. 

And  ever,  if  you  hearken  well, 
You  still  may  hear  its  vesper  bell, 
And  tread  of  high-souled  men  go  by, 
Their  thoughts  conversing  with  the  sky. 

According  to  Jamblichus,  "Pythagoras  did  not  pro- 


MONDAY  185 

cure  for  himself  a  thing  of  this  kind  through  instruments 
or  the  voice,  but  employing  a  certain  ineffable  divinity, 
and  which  it  is  difficult  to  apprehend,  he  extended  his 
ears  and  fixed  his  intellect  in  the  sublime  symphonies 
of  the  world,  he  alone  hearing  and  understanding,  as  it 
appears,  the  universal  harmony  and  consonance  of  the 
spheres,  and  the  stars  that  are  moved  through  them,  and 
which  produce  a  fuller  and  more  intense  melody  than 
anything  effected  by  mortal  sounds." 

Traveling  on  foot  very  early  one  morning  due  east 
from  here  about  twenty  miles,  from  Caleb  Harriman's 
tavern  in  Hampstead  toward  Haverhill,  when  I  reached 
the  railroad  in  Plaistow,  I  heard  at  some  distance  a  faint 
music  in  the  air  like  an  ^Eolian  harp,  which  I  immedi 
ately  suspected  to  proceed  from  the  cord  of  the  telegraph 
vibrating  in  the  just  awakening  morning  wind,  and  ap 
plying  my  ear  to  one  of  the  posts  I  was  convinced  that 
it  was  so.  It  was  the  telegraph  harp  singing  its  message 
through  the  country,  its  message  sent  not  by  men,  but  by 
gods.  Perchance,  like  the  statue  of  Memnon,  it  resounds 
only  in  the  morning,  when  the  first  rays  of  the  sun  fall  on 
it.  It  was  like  the  first  lyre  or  shell  heard  on  the  sea 
shore,  —  that  vibrating  cord  high  in  the  air  over  the 
shores  of  earth.  So  have  all  things  their  higher  and  their 
lower  uses.  I  heard  a  fairer  news  than  the  journals  ever 
print.  It  told  of  things  worthy  to  hear,  and  worthy  of 
the  electric  fluid  to  carry  the  news  of,  not  of  the  price 
of  cotton  and  flour,  but  it  hinted  at  the  price  of  the  world 
itself  and  of  things  which  are  priceless,  of  absolute  truth 
and  beauty. 

Still  the  drum  rolled  on,  and  stirred  our  blood  to  fresh 


186  A  WEEK 

extravagance  that  night.  The  clarion  sound  and  clang 
of  corselet  and  buckler  were  heard  from  many  a  hamlet 
of  the  soul,  and  many  a  knight  was  arming  for  the  fight 
behind  the  encamped  stars. 

"Before  each  van 

Prick  forth  the  aery  knights,  and  couch  their  spears 
Till  thickest  legions  close;  with  feats  of  arms 
From  either  end  of  Heaven  the  welkin  burns." 

Away  !  away  !  away  !  away  ! 

Ye  have  not  kept  your  secret  well, 
I  will  abide  that  other  day, 

Those  other  lands  ye  tejl. 

Has  time  no  leisure  left  for  these, 

The  acts  that  ye  rehearse  ? 
Is  not  eternity  a  lease 

For  better  deeds  than  verse? 

'T  is  sweet  to  hear  of  heroes  dead, 

To  know  them  still  alive, 
But  sweeter  if  we  earn  their  bread, 

And  in  us  they  survive. 

Our  lif e  should  feed  the  springs  of  fame 

With  a  perennial  wave, 
As  ocean  feeds  the  babbling  founts 

Which  find  in  it  their  grave. 

Ye  skies,  drop  gently  round  my  breast, 

And  be  my  corselet  blue, 
Ye  earth,  receive  my  lance  in  rest, 

My  faithful  charger  you; 

Ye  stars,  my  spear-heads  in  the  sky, 

My  arrow-tips  ye  are; 
I  see  the  routed  foemen  fly, 

My  bright  spears  fixed  are. 


MONDAY  187 

Give  me  an  angel  for  a  foe, 

Fix  now  the  place  and  time, 
And  straight  to  meet  him  I  will  go 

Above  the  starry  chime. 

And  with  our  clashing  bucklers'  clang 

The  heavenly  spheres  shall  ring, 
While  bright  the  northern  lights  shall  hang 

Beside  our  tourneying. 

And  if  she  lose  her  champion  true, 

Tell  Heaven  not  despair, 
For  I  will  be  her  champion  new, 

Her  fame  I  will  repair. 

There  was  a  high  wind  this  night,  which  we  after 
wards  learned  had  been  still  more  violent  elsewhere,  and 
had  done  much  injury  to  the  corn-fields  far  and  near; 
but  we  only  heard  it  sigh  from  time  to  time,  as  if  it  had 
no  license  to  shake  the  foundations  of  our  tent ;  the  pines 
murmured,  the  water  rippled,  and  the  tent  rocked  a 
little,  but  we  only  laid  our  ears  closer  to  the  ground, 
while  the  blast  swept  on  to  alarm  other  men,  and  long 
before  sunrise  we  were  ready  to  pursue  our  voyage  as 
usual. 


TUESDAY 

On  either  side  the  river  lie 
Long  fields  of  barley  and  of  rye, 
That  clothe  the  wold  and  meet  the  sky; 
And  through  the  fields  the  road  runs  by 

To  many-towered  Camelot.  —  TENNYSON. 

JJONG  before  daylight  we  ranged  abroad,  hatchet  in 
hand,  in  search  of  fuel,  and  made  the  yet  slumbering 
and  dreaming  wood  resound  with  our  blows.  Then  with 
our  fire  we  burned  up  a  portion  of  the  loitering  night, 
while  the  kettle  sang  its  homely  strain  to  the  morning 
star.  We  tramped  about  the  shore,  waked  all  the  musk- 
rats,  and  scared  up  the  bittern  and  birds  that  were 
asleep  upon  their  roosts;  we  hauled  up  and  upset  our 
boat,  and  washed  it  and  rinsed  out  the  clay,  talking  aloud 
as  if  it  were  broad  day,  until  at  length,  by  three  o'clock, 
we  had  completed  our  preparations  and  were  ready  to 
pursue  our  voyage  as  usual;  so,  shaking  the  clay  from 
our  feet,  we  pushed  into  the  fog. 

Though  we  were  enveloped  in  mist  as  usual,  we 
trusted  that  there  was  a  bright  day  behind  it. 

Ply  the  oars  !   away  !  away  ! 
In  each  dewdrop  of  the  morning 
Lies  the  promise  of  a  day. 

Rivers  from  the  sunrise  flow, 

Springing  with  the  dewy  morn; 

Voyageurs  'gainst  time  do  row, 

Idle  noon  nor  sunset  know, 
Ever  even  with  the  dawn. 


TUESDAY  189 

Belknap,  the  historian  of  this  State,  says  that  "  in  the 
neighborhood  of  fresh  rivers  and  ponds,  a  whitish  fog 
in  the  morning  lying  over  the  water  is  a  sure  indication 
of  fair  weather  for  that  day;  and  when  no  fog  is  seen, 
rain  is  expected  before  night."  That  which  seemed  to 
us  to  invest  the  world  was  only  a  narrow  and  shallow 
wreath  of  vapor  stretched  over  the  channel  of  the  Mer- 
rimack  from  the  seaboard  to  the  mountains.  More 
extensive  fogs,  however,  have  their  own  limits.  I  once 
saw  the  day  break  from  the  top  of  Saddle-back  Moun 
tain  in  Massachusetts,  above  the  clouds.  As  we  cannot 
distinguish  objects  through  this  dense  fog,  let  me  tell 
this  story  more  at  length. 

I  had  come  over  the  hills  on  foot  and  alone  in  serene 
summer  days,  plucking  the  raspberries  by  the  wayside, 
and  occasionally  buying  a  loaf  of  bread  at  a  farmer's 
house,  with  a  knapsack  on  my  back  which  held  a  few 
traveler's  books  and  a  change  of  clothing,  and  a  staff  in 
my  hand.  I  had  that  morning  looked  down  from  the 
Hoosack  Mountain,  where  the  road  crosses  it,  on  the 
village  of  North  Adams  in  the  valley  three  miles  away 
under  my  feet,  showing  how  uneven  the  earth  may 
sometimes  be,  and  making  it  seem  an  accident  that  it 
should  ever  be  level  and  convenient  for  the  feet  of  man. 
Putting  a  little  rice  and  sugar  and  a  tin  cup  into  my 
knapsack  at  this  village,  I  began  in  the  afternoon  to 
ascend  the  mountain,  whose  summit  is  three  thousand 
six  hundred  feet  above  the  level  of  the  sea,  and  was 
seven  or  eight  miles  distant  by  the  path.  My  route  lay 
up  a  long  and  spacious  valley  called  the  Bellows,  because 


190  A  WEEK 

the  winds  rush  up  or  down  it  with  violence  in  storms, 
sloping  up  to  the  very  clouds  between  the  principal  range 
and  a  lower  mountain.  There  were  a  few  farms  scattered 
along  at  different  elevations,  each  commanding  a  fine 
prospect  of  the  mountains  to  the  north,  and  a  stream 
ran  down  the  middle  of  the  valley,  on  which,  near  the 
head,  there  was  a  mill.  It  seemed  a  road  for  the  pilgrim 
to  enter  upon  who  would  climb  to  the  gates  of  heaven. 
Now  I  crossed  a  hayfield,  and  now  over  the  brook  on  a 
slight  bridge,  still  gradually  ascending  all  the  while  with 
a  sort  of  awe,  and  filled  with  indefinite  expectations  as 
to  what  kind  of  inhabitants  and  what  kind  of  nature  I 
should  come  to  at  last.  It  now  seemed  some  advantage 
that  the  earth  was  uneven,  for  one  could  not  imagine 
a  more  noble  position  for  a  farmhouse  than  this  vale 
afforded,  farther  from  or  nearer  to  its  head,  from  a  glen- 
like  seclusion  overlooking  the  country  at  a  great  eleva 
tion  between  these  two  mountain  walls. 

It  reminded  me  of  the  homesteads  of  the  Huguenots, 
on  Staten  Island,  off  the  coast  of  New  Jersey.  The  hills 
in  the  interior  of  this  island,  though  comparatively  low, 
are  penetrated  in  various  directions  by  similar  sloping 
valleys  on  a  humble  scale,  gradually  narrowing  and 
rising  to  the  centre,  and  at  the  head  of  these  the  Hugue 
nots,  who  were  the  first  settlers,  placed  their  houses 
quite  within  the  land,  in  rural  and  sheltered  places,  in 
leafy  recesses  where  the  breeze  played  with  the  poplar 
and  the  gum-tree,  from  which,  with  equal  security  in 
calm  and  storm,  they  looked  out  through  a  widening 
vista,  over  miles  of  forest  and  stretching  salt  marsh, 
to  the  Huguenot's  Tree,  an  old  elm  on  the  shore,  at 


TUESDAY  191 

whose  root  they  had  landed,  and  across  the  spacious 
outer  bay  of  New  York  to  Sandy  Hook  and  the  High 
lands  of  Neversink,  and  thence  over  leagues  of  the 
Atlantic,  perchance  to  some  faint  vessel  in  the  horizon, 
almost  a  day's  sail  on  her  voyage  to  that  Europe  whence 
they  had  come.  When  walking  in  the  interior  there,  in 
the  midst  of  rural  scenery,  where  there  was  as  little  to 
remind  me  of  the  ocean  as  amid  the  New  Hampshire 
hills,  I  have  suddenly,  through  a  gap,  a  cleft  or  "  clove 
road,"  as  the  Dutch  settlers  called  it,  caught  sight  of  a 
ship  under  full  sail,  over  a  field  of  corn,  twenty  or  thirty 
miles  at  sea.  The  effect  was  similar,  since  I  had  no 
means  of  measuring  distances,  to  seeing  a  painted  ship 
passed  backwards  and  forwards  through  a  magic  lan 
tern. 

But  to  return  to  the  mountain.  It  seemed  as  if  he 
must  be  the  most  singular  and  heavenly-minded  man 
whose  dwelling  stood  highest  up  the  valley.  The  thunder 
had  rumbled  at  my  heels  all  the  way,  but  the  shower 
passed  off  in  another  direction,  though  if  it  had  not,  I 
half  believed  that  I  should  get  above  it.  I  at  length 
reached  the  last  house  but  one,  where  the  path  to  the 
summit  diverged  to  the  right,  while  the  summit  itself 
rose  directly  in  front.  But  I  determined  to  follow  up  the 
valley  to  its  head,  and  then  find  my  own  route  up  the 
steep  as  the  shorter  and  more  adventurous  way.  I  had 
thoughts  of  returning  to  this  house,  which  was  well  kept 
and  so  nobly  placed,  the  next  day,  and  perhaps  remain 
ing  a  week  there,  if  I  could  have  entertainment.  Its 
mistress  was  a  frank  and  hospitable  young  woman,  who 
stood  before  me  in  a  dishabille,  busily  and  uncon- 


192  A  WEEK 

cernedly  combing  her  long  black  hair  while  she  talked, 
giving  her  head  the  necessary  toss  with  each  sweep  of 
the  comb,  with  lively,  sparkling  eyes,  and  full  of  interest 
in  that  lower  world  from  which  I  had  come,  talking  all 
the  while  as  familiarly  as  if  she  had  known  me  for  years, 
and  reminding  me  of  a  cousin  of  mine.  She  at  first  had 
taken  me  for  a  student  from  Williamstown,  for  they 
went  by  in  parties,  she  said,  either  riding  or  walking, 
almost  every  pleasant  day,  and  were  a  pretty  wild  set  of 
fellows ;  but  they  never  went  by  the  way  I  was  going. 
As  I  passed  the  last  house,  a  man  called  out  to  know 
what  I  had  to  sell,  for,  seeing  my  knapsack,  he  thought 
that  I  might  be  a  peddler  who  was  taking  this  unusual 
route  over  the  ridge  of  the  valley  into  South  Adams.  He 
told  me  that  it  was  still  four  or  five  miles  to  the  summit 
by  the  path  which  I  had  left,  though  not  more  than  two 
in  a  straight  line  from  where  I  was,  but  that  nobody  ever 
went  this  way;  there  was  no  path,  and  I  should  find  it 
as  steep  as  the  roof  of  a  house.  But  I  knew  that  I  was 
more  used  to  woods  and  mountains  than  he,  and  went 
along  through  his  cow-yard,  while  he,  looking  at  the  sun, 
shouted  after  me  that  I  should  not  get  to  the  top  that 
night.  I  soon  reached  the  head  of  the  valley,  but  as  I 
could  not  see  the  summit  from  this  point,  I  ascended  a 
low  mountain  on  the  opposite  side,  and  took  its  bear 
ing  with  my  compass.  I  at  once  entered  the  woods, 
and  began  to  climb  the  steep  side  of  the  mountain  in 
a  diagonal  direction,  taking  the  bearing  of  a  tree  every 
dozen  rods.  The  ascent  was  by  no  means  difficult 
or  unpleasant,  and  occupied  much  less  time  than 
it  would  have  taken  to  follow  the  path.  Even  coun- 


TUESDAY  193 

try  people,  I  have  observed,  magnify  the  difficulty  of 
traveling  in  the  forest,  and  especially  among  moun 
tains.  They  seem  to  lack  their  usual  common  sense  in 
this.  I  have  climbed  several  higher  mountains  without 
guide  or  path,  and  have  found,  as  might  be  expected, 
that  it  takes  only  more  time  and  patience  commonly 
than  to  travel  the  smoothest  highway.  It  is  very  rare 
that  you  meet  with  obstacles  in  this  world  which  the 
humblest  man  has  not  faculties  to  surmount.  It  is  true 
we  may  come  to  a  perpendicular  precipice,  but  we  need 
not  jump  off,  nor  run  our  heads  against  it.  A  man  may 
jump  down  his  own  cellar  stairs,  or  dash  his  brains 
out  against  his  chimney,  if  he  is  mad.  So  far  as  my 
experience  goes,  travelers  generally  exaggerate  the  dif 
ficulties  of  the  way.  Like  most  evil,  the  difficulty  is 
imaginary;  for  what 's  the  hurry  ?  If  a  person  lost  would 
conclude  that  after  all  he  is  not  lost,  he  is  not  beside 
himself,  but  standing  in  his  own  old  shoes  on  the  very 
spot  where  he  is,  and  that  for  the  time  being  he  will  live 
there;  but  the  places  that  have  known  him,  they  are 
lost,  —  how  much  anxiety  and  danger  would  vanish.  I 
am  not  alone  if  I  stand  by  myself.  Who  knows  where  in 
space  this  globe  is  rolling?  Yet  we  will  not  give  our 
selves  up  for  lost,  let  it  go  where  it  will. 

I  made  my  way  steadily  upward  in  a  straight  line, 
through  a  dense  undergrowth  of  mountain  laurel,  until 
the  trees  began  to  have  a  scraggy  and  infernal  look,  as  if 
contending  with  frost  goblins,  and  at  length  I  reached 
the  summit,  just  as  the  sun  was  setting.  Several  acres 
here  had  been  cleared,  and  were  covered  with  rocks  and 
stumps,  and  there  was  a  rude  observatory  in  the  middle 


194  A  WEEK 

which  overlooked  the  woods.  I  had  one  fair  view  of 
the  country  before  the  sun  went  down,  but  I  was  too 
thirsty  to  waste  any  light  in  viewing  the  prospect,  and  set 
out  directly  to  find  water.  First,  going  down  a  well- 
beaten  path  for  half  a  mile  through  the  low,  scrubby 
wood,  till  I  came  to  where  the  water  stood  in  the  tracks 
of  the  horses  which  had  carried  travelers  up,  I  lay  down 
flat,  and  drank  these  dry,  one  after  another,  a  pure,  cold, 
spring-like  water,  but  yet  I  could  not  fill  my  dipper, 
though  I  contrived  little  siphons  of  grass  stems,  and 
ingenious  aqueducts  on  a  small  scale;  it  was  too  slow 
a  process.  Then,  remembering  that  I  had  passed  a  moist 
place  near  the  top,  on  my  way  up,  I  returned  to  find  it 
again,  and  here,  with  sharp  stones  and  my  hands,  in  the 
twilight,  I  made  a  well  about  two  feet  deep,  which  was 
soon  filled  with  pure  cold  water,  and  the  birds  too  came 
and  drank  at  it.  So  I  filled  my  dipper,  and,  making  my 
way  back  to  the  observatory,  collected  some  dry  sticks, 
and  made  a  fire  on  some  flat  stones  which  had  been 
placed  on  the  floor  for  that  purpose,  and  so  I  soon  cooked 
my  supper  of  rice,  having  already  whittled  a  wooden 
spoon  to  eat  it  with. 

I  sat  up  during  the  evening,  reading  by  the  light  of  the 
fire  the  scraps  of  newspapers  in  which  some  party  had 
wrapped  their  luncheon,  —  the  prices  current  in  New 
York  and  Boston,  the  advertisements,  and  the  singular 
editorials  which  some  had  seen  fit  to  publish,  not  fore 
seeing  under  what  critical  circumstances  they  would  be 
read.  I  read  these  things  at  a  vast  advantage  there,  and 
it  seemed  to  me  that  the  advertisements,  or  what  is  called 
the  business  part  of  a  paper,  were  greatly  the  best,  the 


TUESDAY  195 

most  useful,  natural,  and  respectable.  Almost  all  the 
opinions  and  sentiments  expressed  were  so  little  con 
sidered,  so  shallow  and  flimsy,  that  I  thought  the  very 
texture  of  the  paper  must  be  weaker  in  that  part  and  tear 
the  more  easily.  The  advertisements  and  the  prices 
current  were  more  closely  allied  to  nature,  and  were 
respectable  in  some  measure  as  tide  and  meteorological 
tables  are ;  but  the  reading-matter,  which  I  remembered 
was  most  prized  down  below,  unless  it  was  some  humble 
record  of  science,  or  an  extract  from  some  old  classic, 
struck  me  as  strangely  whimsical,  and  crude,  and  one- 
idea'd,  like  a  school-boy's  theme,  such  as  youths  write 
and  after  burn.  The  opinions  were  of  that  kind  that  are 
doomed  to  wear  a  different  aspect  to-morrow,  like  last 
year's  fashions;  as  if  mankind  were  very  green  indeed, 
and  would  be  ashamed  of  themselves  in  a  few  years, 
when  they  had  outgrown  this  verdant  period.  There 
was,  moreover,  a  singular  disposition  to  wit  and  humor, 
but  rarely  the  slightest  real  success ;  and  the  apparent 
success  was  a  terrible  satire  on  the  attempt;  the  Evil 
Genius  of  man  laughed  the  loudest  at  his  best  jokes. 
The  advertisements,  as  I  have  said,  such  as  were  serious, 
and  not  of  the  modern  quack  kind,  suggested  pleasing 
and  poetic  thoughts ;  for  commerce  is  really  as  interest 
ing  as  nature.  The  very  names  of  the  commodities  were 
poetic,  and  as  suggestive  as  if  they  had  been  inserted  in  a 
pleasing  poem,  —  Lumber,  Cotton,  Sugar,  Hides,  Guano, 
Logwood.  Some  sober,  private,  and  original  thought 
would  have  been  grateful  to  read  there,  and  as  much 
in  harmony  with  the  circumstances  as  if  it  had  been 
written  on  a  mountain-top;  for  it  is  of  a  fashion  which 


196  A  WEEK 

never  changes,  and  as  respectable  as  hides  and  logwood, 
or  any  natural  product.  What  an  inestimable  companion 
such  a  scrap  of  paper  would  have  been,  containing  some 
fruit  of  a  mature  life !  What  a  relic !  What  a  recipe !  It 
seemed  a  divine  invention,  by  which  not  mere  shining 
coin,  but  shining  and  current  thoughts,  could  be  brought 
up  and  left  there. 

As  it  was  cold,  I  collected  quite  a  pile  of  wood  and  lay 
down  on  a  board  against  the  side  of  the  building,  not 
having  any  blanket  to  cover  me,  with  my  head  to  the 
fire,  that  I  might  look  after  it,  which  is  not  the  Indian 
rule.  But  as  it  grew  colder  towards  midnight,  I  at  length 
encased  myself  completely  in  boards,  managing  even  to 
put  a  board  on  top  of  me,  with  a  large  stone  on  it,  to  keep 
it  down,  and  so  slept  comfortably.  I  was  reminded,  it 
is  true,  of  the  Irish  children,  who  inquired  what  their 
neighbors  did  who  had  no  door  to  put  over  them  in  win 
ter  nights  as  they  had;  but  I  am  convinced  that  there 
was  nothing  very  strange  in  the  inquiry.  Those  who  have 
never  tried  it  can  have  no  idea  how  far  a  door,  which 
keeps  the  single  blanket  down,  may  go  toward  making 
one  comfortable.  We  are  constituted  a  good  deal  like 
chickens,  which,  taken  from  the  hen,  and  put  in  a  basket 
of  cotton  in  the  chimney-corner,  will  often  peep  till  they 
die,  nevertheless ;  but  if  you  put  in  a  book,  or  anything 
heavy,  which  will  press  down  the  cotton,  and  feel  like  the 
hen,  they  go  to  sleep  directly.  My  only  companions  were 
the  mice,  which  came  to  pick  up  the  crumbs  that  had 
been  left  in  those  scraps  of  paper;  still,  as  everywhere, 
pensioners  on  man,  and  not  unwisely  improving  this  ele 
vated  tract  for  their  habitation.  They  nibbled  what  was 


TUESDAY  197 

for  them ;  I  nibbled  what  was  for  me.  Once  or  twice  in 
the  night,  when  I  looked  up,  I  saw  a  white  cloud  drifting 
through  the  windows,  and  filling  the  whole  upper  story. 

This  observatory  was  a  building  of  considerable  size, 
erected  by  the  students  of  Williamstown  College,  whose 
buildings  might  be  seen  by  daylight  gleaming  far  down 
in  the  valley.  It  would  be  no  small  advantage  if  every 
college  were  thus  located  at  the  base  of  a  mountain,  as 
good  at  least  as  one  well-endowed  professorship.  It 
were  as  well  to  be  educated  in  the  shadow  of  a  mountain 
as  in  more  classical  shades.  Some  will  remember,  no 
doubt,  not  only  that  they  went  to  the  college,  but  that 
they  went  to  the  mountain.  Every  visit  to  its  summit 
would,  as  it  were,  generalize  the  particular  information 
gained  below,  and  subject  it  to  more  catholic  tests. 

I  was  up  early  and  perched  upon  the  top  of  this  tower 
to  see  the  daybreak,  for  some  time  reading  the  names 
that  had  been  engraved  there,  before  I  could  distinguish 
more  distant  objects.  An  "untamable  fly"  buzzed  at 
my  elbow  with  the  same  nonchalance  as  on  a  molasses 
hogshead  at  the  end  of  Long  Wharf.  Even  there  I  must 
attend  to  his  stale  humdrum.  But  now  I  come  to  the  pith 
of  this  long  digression.  As  the  light  increased,  I  dis 
covered  around  me  an  ocean  of  mist,  which  by  chance 
reached  up  exactly  to  the  base  of  the  tower,  and  shut  out 
every  vestige  of  the  earth,  while  I  was  left  floating  on  this 
fragment  of  the  wreck  of  a  world,  on  my  carved  plank,  in 
cloudland;  a  situation  which  required  no  aid  from  the 
imagination  to  render  it  impressive.  As  the  light  in  the 
east  steadily  increased,  it  revealed  to  me  more  clearly 
the  new  world  into  which  I  had  risen  in  the  night,  the 


198  A  WEEK 

new  terra  firma  perchance  of  my  future  life.  There  was 
not  a  crevice  left  through  which  the  trivial  places  we 
name  Massachusetts  or  Vermont  or  New  York  could  be 
seen,  while  I  still  inhaled  the  clear  atmosphere  of  a  July 
morning,  —  if  it  were  July  there.  All  around  beneath 
me  was  spread  for  a  hundred  miles  on  every  side,  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach,  an  undulating  country  of  clouds, 
answering  in  the  varied  swell  of  its  surface  to  the  terres 
trial  world  it  veiled.  It  was  such  a  country  as  we  might 
see  in  dreams,  with  all  the  delights  of  paradise.  There 
were  immense  snowy  pastures,  apparently  smooth 
shaven  and  firm,  and  shady  vales  between  the  vaporous 
mountains;  and  far  in  the  horizon  I  could  see  where 
some  luxurious  misty  timber  jutted  into  the  prairie,  and 
trace  the  windings  of  a  watercourse,  some  unimagined 
Amazon  or  Orinoko,  by  the  misty  trees  on  its  brink.  As 
there  was  wanting  the  symbol,  so  there  was  not  the  sub 
stance  of  impurity,  no  spot  nor  stain.  It  was  a  favor  for 
which  to  be  forever  silent  to  be  shown  this  vision.  The 
earth  beneath  had  become  such  a  flitting  thing  of  lights 
and  shadows  as  the  clouds  had  been  before.  It  was  not 
merely  veiled  to  me,  but  it  had  passed  away  like  the 
phantom  of  a  shadow,  <naas  6Vap,  and  this  new  plat 
form  was  gained.  As  I  had  climbed  above  storm  and 
cloud,  so  by  successive  days'  journeys  I  might  reach  the 
region  of  eternal  day,  beyond  the  tapering  shadow  of 
the  earth;  ay,  — 

"Heaven  itself  shall  slide, 

And  roll  away  like  melting  stars  that  glide 

Along  their  oily  threads." 

But  when  its  own  sun  began  to  rise  on  this  pure  world, 


Williamstown  from  Saddle-back  Mountain  (Greylock) 


md  *• 


TUESDAY  199 

I  found  myself  a  dweller  in  the  dazzling  halls  of  Aurora, 
into  which  poets  have  had  but  a  partial  glance  over  the 
eastern  hills,  drifting  amid  the  saffron-colored  clouds, 
and  playing  with  the  rosy  fingers  of  the  Dawn,  in  the 
very  path  of  the  Sun's  chariot,  and  sprinkled  with  its 
dewy  dust,  enjoying  the  benignant  smile,  and  near  at 
hand  the  far-darting  glances  of  the  god.  The  inhab 
itants  of  earth  behold  commonly  but  the  dark  and 
shadowy  under  side  of  heaven's  pavement;  it  is  only 
when  seen  at  a  favorable  angle  in  the  horizon,  morning 
or  evening,  that  some  faint  streaks  of  the  rich  lining  of 
the  clouds  are  revealed.  But  my  muse  would  fail  to  con 
vey  an  impression  of  the  gorgeous  tapestry  by  which  I 
was  surrounded,  such  as  men  see  faintly  reflected  afar 
off  in  the  chambers  of  the  east.  Here,  as  on  earth,  I  saw 
the  gracious  god 

"  Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye, 

Gilding  pale  streams  with  heavenly  alchemy." 

But  never  here  did  "  Heaven's  sun  "  stain  himself. 

But,  alas,  owing,  as  I  think,  to  some  unworthiness  in 
myself,  my  private  sun  did  stain  himself,  and 

"Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride 
With  ugly  wrack  on  his  celestial  face,"  — 

for  before  the  god  had  reached  the  zenith  the  heavenly 
pavement  rose  and  embraced  my  wavering  virtue,  or 
rather  I  sank  down  again  into  that  "forlorn  world," 
from  which  the  celestial  sun  had  hid  his  visage,  — 

"How  may  a  worm  that  crawls  along  the  dust, 
Clamber  the  azure  mountains,  thrown  so  high, 


200  A  WEEK 

And  fetch  from  thence  thy  fair  idea  just, 

That  in  those  sunny  courts  doth  hidden  lie, 

Clothed  with  such  light  as  blinds  the  angel's  eye  ? 
How  may  weak  mortal  ever  hope  to  file 
His  unsmooth  tongue,  and  his  deprostrate  style  ? 

Oh,  raise  thou  from  his  corse  thy  now  entombed  exile!" 

In  the  preceding  evening  I  had  seen  the  summits  of 
new  and  yet  higher  mountains,  the  Catskills,  by  which  I 
might  hope  to  climb  to  heaven  again,  and  had  set  my 
compass  for  a  fair  lake  in  the  southwest,  which  lay  in  my 
way,  for  which  I  now  steered,  descending  the  mountain 
by  my  own  route,  on  the  side  opposite  to  that  by  which 
I  had  ascended,  and  soon  found  myself  in  the  region  of 
cloud  and  drizzling  rain,  and  the  inhabitants  affirmed 
that  it  had  been  a  cloudy  and  drizzling  day  wholly. 

But  now  we  must  make  haste  back  before  the  fog 
disperses  to  the  blithe  Merrimack  water. 

Since  that  first  "Away  !  away  !" 
Many  a  lengthy  reach  we've  rowed, 

Still  the  sparrow  on  the  spray 

Hastes  to  usher  in  the  day 
With  her  simple  stanza' d  ode. 

We  passed  a  canal-boat  before  sunrise,  groping  its 
way  to  the  seaboard,  and,  though  we  could  not  see  it  on 
account  of  the  fog,  the  few  dull,  thumping,  stertorous 
sounds  which  we  heard  impressed  us  with  a  sense  of 
weight  and  irresistible  motion.  One  little  rill  of  com 
merce  already  awake  on  this  distant  New  Hampshire 
river.  The  fog,  as  it  required  more  skill  in  the  steering, 
enhanced  the  interest  of  our  early  voyage,  and  made 
the  river  seem  indefinitely  broad.  A  slight  mist,  through 


TUESDAY  201 

which  objects  are  faintly  visible,  has  the  effect  of  expand 
ing  even  ordinary  streams,  by  a  singular  mirage,  into 
arms  of  the  sea  or  inland  lakes.  In  the  present  instance, 
it  was  even  fragrant  and  invigorating,  and  we  enjoyed 
it  as  a  sort  of  earlier  sunshine,  or  dewy  and  embryo  light. 

Low-anchored  cloud, 

Newfoundland  air, 

Fountain-head  and  source  of  rivers, 

Dew-cloth,  dream  drapery, 

And  napkin  spread  by  fays; 

Drifting  meadow  of  the  air, 

Where  bloom  the  daisied  banks  and  violets, 

And  in  whose  fenny  labyrinth 

The  bittern  booms  and  heron  wades; 

Spirit  of  lakes  and  seas  and  rivers, 

Bear  only  perfumes  and  the  scent 

Of  healing  herbs  to  just  men's  fields! 

The  same  pleasant  and  observant  historian  whom  we 
quoted  above  says  that  "In  the  mountainous  parts  of 
the  country,  the  ascent  of  vapors,  and  their  formation 
into  clouds,  is  a  curious  and  entertaining  object.  The 
vapors  are  seen  rising  in  small  columns  like  smoke  from 
many  chimneys.  When  risen  to  a  certain  height,  they 
spread,  meet,  condense,  and  are  attracted  to  the  moun 
tains,  where  they  either  distill  in  gentle  dews,  and  re 
plenish  the  springs,  or  descend  in  showers,  accompanied 
with  thunder.  After  short  intermissions,  the  process  is 
repeated  many  times  in  the  course  of  a  summer  day, 
affording  to  travelers  a  lively  illustration  of  that  is 
observed  in  the  Book  of  Job,  *  They  are  wet  with  the 
showers  of  the  mountains.' " 

Fogs  and  clouds  which  conceal  the  overshadowing 


202  A  WEEK 

mountains  lend  the  breadth  of  the  plains  to  mountain 
vales.  Even  a  small-featured  country  acquires  some 
grandeur  in  stormy  weather  when  clouds  are  seen  drift 
ing  between  the  beholder  and  the  neighboring  hills. 
When,  in  traveling  toward  Haverhill  through  Hamp- 
stead  in  this  State,  on  the  height  of  land  between  the 
Merrimack  and  the  Piscataqua  or  the  sea,  you  com 
mence  the  descent  eastward,  the  view  toward  the  coast 
is  so  distant  and  unexpected,  though  the  sea  is  invisible, 
that  you  at  first  suppose  the  unobstructed  atmosphere 
to  be  a  fog  in  the  lowlands  concealing  hills  of  correspond 
ing  elevation  to  that  you  are  upon;  but  it  is  the  mist  of 
prejudice  alone,  which  the  winds  will  not  disperse.  The 
most  stupendous  scenery  ceases  to  be  sublime  when 
it  becomes  distinct,  or  in  other  words  limited,  and  the 
imagination  is  no  longer  encouraged  to  exaggerate  it. 
The  actual  height  and  breadth  of  a  mountain  or  a  water 
fall  are  always  ridiculously  small;  they  are  the  imagined 
only  that  content  us.  Nature  is  not  made  after  such  a 
fashion  as  we  would  have  her.  We  piously  exaggerate 
her  wonders,  as  the  scenery  around  our  home. 

Such  was  the  heaviness  of  the  dews  along  this  river 
that  we  were  generally  obliged  to  leave  our  tent  spread 
over  the  bows  of  the  boat  till  the  sun  had  dried  it,  to 
avoid  mildew.  We  passed  the  mouth  of  Penichook 
Brook,  a  wild  salmon  stream,  in  the  fog,  without  seeing 
it.  At  length  the  sun's  rays  struggled  through  the  mist 
and  showed  us  the  pines  on  shore  dripping  with  dew,  and 
springs  trickling  from  the  moist  banks, — 

"And  now  the  taller  sons,  whom  Titan  warms, 
Of  unshorn  mountains  blown  with  easy  winds, 


TUESDAY  203 

Dandle  the  morning's  childhood  in  their  arms, 
And,  if  they  chanced  to  slip  the  prouder  pines, 
The  under  corylets  did  catch  their  shines, 
To  gild  their  leaves." 

We  rowed  for  some  hours  between  glistening  banks 
before  the  sun  had  dried  the  grass  and  leaves,  or  the  day 
had  established  its  character.  Its  serenity  at  last  seemed 
the  more  profound  and  secure  for  the  denseness  of  the 
morning's  fog.  The  river  became  swifter,  and  the  scen 
ery  more  pleasing  than  before.  The  banks  were  steep 
and  clayey  for  the  most  part,  and  trickling  with  water, 
and  where  a  spring  oozed  out  a  few  feet  above  the  river 
the  boatmen  had  cut  a  trough  out  of  a  slab  with  their 
axes,  and  placed  it  so  as  to  receive  the  water  and  fill  their 
jugs  conveniently.  Sometimes  this  purer  and  cooler 
water,  bursting  out  from  under  a  pine  or  a  rock,  was 
collected  into  a  basin  close  to  the  edge  of  and  level  with 
the  river,  a  fountain-head  of  the  Merrimack.  So  near 
along  life's  stream  are  the  fountains  of  innocence  and 
youth  making  fertile  its  sandy  margin;  and  the  voyageur 
will  do  well  to  replenish  his  vessels  often  at  these  uncon- 
taminated  sources.  Some  youthful  spring,  perchance, 
still  empties  with  tinkling  music  into  the  oldest  river, 
even  when  it  is  falling  into  the  sea,  and  we  imagine  that 
its  music  is  distinguished  by  the  river-gods  from  the 
general  lapse  of  the  stream,  and  falls  sweeter  on  their 
ears  in  proportion  as  it  is  nearer  to  the  ocean.  As  the 
evaporations  of  the  river  feed  thus  these  unsuspected 
springs  which  filter  through  its  banks,  so,  perchance, 
our  aspirations  fall  back  again  in  springs  on  the  margin 
of  life's  stream  to  refresh  and  purify  it.  The  yellow  and 


204  A  WEEK 

tepid  river  may  float  his  scow,  and  cheer  his  eye  with  its 
reflections  and  its  ripples,  but  the  boatman  quenches 
his  thirst  at  this  small  rill  alone.  It  is  this  purer  and 
cooler  element  that  chiefly  sustains  his  life.  The  race 
will  long  survive  that  is  thus  discreet. 

Our  course  this  morning  lay  between  the  territories  of 
Merrimack,  on  the  west,  and  Litchfield,  once  called 
Brenton's  Farm,  on  the  east,  which  townships  were 
anciently  the  Indian  Naticook.  Brenton  was  a  fur- 
trader  among  the  Indians,  and  these  lands  were  granted 
to  him  in  1656.  The  latter  township  contains  about  five 
hundred  inhabitants,  of  whom,  however,  we  saw  none, 
and  but  few  of  their  dwellings.  Being  on  the  river,  whose 
banks  are  always  high  and  generally  conceal  the  few 
houses,  the  country  appeared  much  more  wild  and 
primitive  than  to  the  traveler  on  the  neighboring  roads. 
The  river  is  by  far  the  most  attractive  highway,  and 
those  boatmen  who  have  spent  twenty  or  twenty-five 
years  on  it  must  have  had  a  much  fairer,  more  wild  and 
memorable  experience  than  the  dusty  and  jarring  one  of 
the  teamster  who  has  driven,  during  the  same  time,  on 
the  roads  which  run  parallel  with  the  stream.  As  one 
ascends  the  Merrimack  he  rarely  sees  a  village,  but  for 
the  most  part  alternate  wood  and  pasture  lands,  and 
sometimes  a  field  of  corn  or  potatoes,  of  rye  or  oats  or 
English  grass,  with  a  few  straggling  apple  trees,  and,  at 
still  longer  intervals,  a  farmer's  house.  The  soil,  except 
ing  the  best  of  the  interval,  is  commonly  as  light  and 
sandy  as  a  patriot  could  desire.  Sometimes  this  fore 
noon  the  country  appeared  in  its  primitive  state,  and  as 
if  the  Indian  still  inhabited  it,  and,  again,  as  if  many 


TUESDAY  205 

free,  new  settlers  occupied  it,  their  slight  fences  strag 
gling  down  to  the  water's  edge;  and  the  barking  of  dogs, 
and  even  the  prattle  of  children,  were  heard,  and  smoke 
was  seen  to  go  up  from  some  hearthstone,  and  the  banks 
were  divided  into  patches  of  pasture,  mowing,  tillage, 
and  woodland.  But  when  the  river  spread  out  broader, 
with  an  uninhabited  islet,  or  a  long,  low,  sandy  shore 
which  ran  on  single  and  devious,  not  answering  to  its 
opposite,  but  far  off  as  if  it  were  seashore  or  single  coast, 
and  the  land  no  longer  nursed  the  river  in  its  bosom,  but 
they  conversed  as  equals,  the  rustling  leaves  with  rippling 
leaves,  and  few  fences  were  seen,  but  high  oak  woods  on 
one  side,  and  large  herds  of  cattle,  and  all  tracks  seemed 
to  point  to  one  centre  behind  some  statelier  grove,  — we 
imagined  that  the  river  flowed  through  an  extensive 
manor,  and  that  the  few  inhabitants  were  retainers  to  a 
lord,  and  a  feudal  state  of  things  prevailed. 

When  there  was  a  suitable  reach,  we  caught  sight  of 
the  Goffstown  mountain,  the  Indian  Uncannunuc,  rising 
before  us  on  the  west  side.  It  was  a  calm  and  beautiful 
day,  with  only  a  slight  zephyr  to  ripple  the  surface  of  the 
water,  and  rustle  the  woods  on  shore,  and  just  warmth 
enough  to  prove  the  kindly  disposition  of  Nature  to  her 
children.  With  buoyant  spirits  and  vigorous  impulses 
we  tossed  our  boat  rapidly  along  into  the  very  middle  of 
this  forenoon.  The  fish  hawk  sailed  and  screamed  over 
head.  The  chipping  or  striped  squirrel,  Sciurus  striatus 
(Tamias  Lysteri,  Aud.),  sat  upon  the  end  of  some  Vir 
ginia  fence  or  rider  reaching  over  the  stream,  twirling  a 
green  nut  with  one  paw,  as  in  a  lathe,  while  the  other  held 
it  fast  against  its  incisors  as  chisels.  Like  an  independent 


206  A  WEEK 

russet  leaf,  with  a  will  of  its  own,  rustling  whither  it 
could;  now  under  the  fence,  now  over  it,  now  peeping 
at  the  voyageurs  through  a  crack  with  only  its  tail  visible, 
now  at  its  lunch  deep  in  the  toothsome  kernel,  and  now  a 
rod  off  playing  at  hide-and-seek,  with  the  nut  stowed 
away  in  its  chaps,  where  were  half  a  dozen  more  besides, 
extending  its  cheeks  to  a  ludicrous  breadth,  —  as  if  it 
were  devising  through  what  safe  valve  of  frisk  or  somer 
set  to  let  its  superfluous  life  escape;  the  stream  passing 
harmlessly  off,  even  while  it  sits,  in  constant  electric 
flashes  through  its  tail.  And  now  with  a  chuckling 
squeak  it  dives  into  the  root  of  a  hazel,  and  we  see  no 
more  of  it.  Or  the  larger  red  squirrel,  or  chickaree, 
sometimes  called  the  Hudson  Bay  squirrel  (Sciurus 
Hudsonius),  gave  warning  of  our  approach  by  that  pecu 
liar  alarum  of  his,  like  the  winding  up  of  some  strong 
clock,  in  the  top  of  a  pine  tree,  and  dodged  behind  its 
stem,  or  leaped  from  tree  to  tree  with  such  caution  and 
adroitness,  as  if  much  depended  on  the  fidelity  of  his 
scout,  running  along  the  white  pine  boughs  sometimes 
twenty  rods  by  our  side,  with  such  speed,  and  by  such 
unerring  routes,  as  if  it  were  some  well-worn  familiar 
path  to  him;  and  presently,  when  we  have  passed,  he 
returns  to  his  work  of  cutting  off  the  pine  cones,  and  let 
ting  them  fall  to  the  ground. 

We  passed  Cromwell's  Falls,  the  first  we  met  with  on 
this  river,  this  forenoon,  by  means  of  locks,  without 
using  our  wheels.  These  falls  are  the  Nesenkeag  of  the 
Indians.  Great  Nesenkeag  Stream  comes  in  on  the  right 
just  above,  and  Little  Nesenkeag  some  distance  below, 
both  in  Litchfield.  We  read  in  the  Gazetteer,  under  the 


Distant  View  of  Uncannunuc 


A  WEEI: 

will  of  :; 


TUESDAY  207 

head  of  Merrimack,  that  "the  first  house  in  this  town 
was  erected  on  the  margin  of  the  river  [soon  after  1665] 
for  a  house  of  traffic  with  the  Indians.  For  some  time 
one  Cromwell  carried  on  a  lucrative  trade  with  them, 
weighing  their  furs  with  his  foot,  till,  enraged  at  his  sup 
posed  or  real  deception,  they  formed  the  resolution  to 
murder  him.  This  intention  being  communicated  to 
Cromwell,  he  buried  his  wealth  and  made  his  escape. 
Within  a  few  hours  after  his  flight,  a  party  of  the  Pena- 
cook  tribe  arrived,  and,  not  finding  the  object  of  their 
resentment,  burnt  his  habitation."  Upon  the  top  of  the 
high  bank  here,  close  to  the  river,  was  still  to  be  seen  his 
cellar,  now  overgrown  with  trees.  It  was  a  convenient 
spot  for  such  a  traffic,  at  the  foot  of  the  first  falls  above 
the  settlements,  and  commanding  a  pleasant  view  up  the 
river,  where  he  could  see  the  Indians  coming  down  with 
their  furs.  The  lock-man  told  us  that  his  shovel  and 
tongs  had  been  plowed  up  here,  and  also  a  stone  with 
his  name  on  it.  But  we  will  not  vouch  for  the  truth  of 
this  story.  In  the  New  Hampshire  Historical  Collections 
for  1815  it  says,  "Some  time  after,  pewter  was  found  in 
the  well,  and  an  iron  pot  and  trammel  in  the  sand ;  the 
latter  are  preserved."  These  were  the  traces  of  the  white 
trader.  On  the  opposite  bank,  where  it  jutted  over  the 
stream  cape-wise,  we  picked  up  four  arrowheads,  and  a 
small  Indian  tool  made  of  stone,  as  soon  as  we  had 
climbed  it,  where  plainly  there  had  once  stood  a  wig 
wam  of  the  Indians  with  whom  Cromwell  traded,  and 
who  fished  and  hunted  here  before  he  came. 

As  usual,  the  gossips  have  not  been  silent  respecting 
Cromwell's  buried  wealth,  and  it  is  said  that  some  years 


208  A  WEEK 

ago  a  farmer's  plow,  not  far  from  here,  slid  over  a  flat 
stone  which  emitted  a  hollow  sound,  and,  on  its  being 
raised,  a  small  hole  six  inches  in  diameter  was  discovered, 
stoned  about,  from  which  a  sum  of  money  was  taken. 
The  lock-man  told  us  another  similar  story  about  a 
farmer  in  a  neighboring  town,  who  had  been  a  poor  man, 
but  who  suddenly  bought  a  good  farm,  and  was  well  to 
do  in  the  world,  and,  when  he  was  questioned,  did  not 
give  a  satisfactory  account  of  the  matter;  how  few,  alas, 
could!  This  caused  his  hired  man  to  remember  that 
one  day,  as  they  were  plowing  together,  the  plow  struck 
something,  and  his  employer,  going  back  to  look,  con 
cluded  not  to  go  round  again,  saying  that  the  sky  looked 
rather  lowering,  and  so  put  up  his  team.  The  like 
urgency  has  caused  many  things  to  be  remembered  which 
never  transpired.  The  truth  is,  there  is  money  buried 
everywhere,  and  you  have  only  to  go  to  work  to  find  it. 

Not  far  from  these  falls  stands  an  oak  tree,  on  the 
interval,  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  from  the  river,  on  the 
farm  of  a  Mr.  Lund,  which  was  pointed  out  to  us  as  the 
spot  where  French,  the  leader  of  the  party  which  went 
in  pursuit  of  the  Indians  from  Dunstable,  was  killed. 
Farwell  dodged  them  in  the  thick  woods  near.  It  did  not 
look  as  if  men  had  ever  had  to  run  for  their  lives  on  this 
now  open  and  peaceful  interval. 

Here,  too,  was  another  extensive  desert  by  the  side  of 
the  road  in  Litchfield,  visible  from  the  bank  of  the  river. 
The  sand  was  blown  off  in  some  places  to  the  depth  of 
ten  or  twelve  feet,  leaving  small  grotesque  hillocks  of 
that  height,  where  there  was  a  clump  of  bushes  firmly 
rooted.  Thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  as  we  were  told,  it  was 


TUESDAY  209 

a  sheep-pasture,  but  the  sheep,  being  worried  by  the 
fleas,  began  to  paw  the  ground,  till  they  broke  the  sod, 
and  so  the  sand  began  to  blow,  till  now  it  had  extended 
over  forty  or  fifty  acres.  This  evil  might  easily  have 
been  remedied,  at  first,  by  spreading  birches  with  their 
leaves  on  over  the  sand,  and  fastening  them  down  with 
stakes,  to  break  the  wind.  The  fleas  bit  the  sheep,  and 
the  sheep  bit  the  ground,  and  the  sore  had  spread  to  this 
extent.  It  is  astonishing  what  a  great  sore  a  little  scratch 
breedeth.  Who  knows  but  Sahara,  where  caravans  and 
cities  are  buried,  began  with  the  bite  of  an  African  flea  ? 
This  poor  globe,  how  it  must  itch  in  many  places !  Will 
no  god  be  kind  enough  to  spread  a  salve  of  birches  over 
its  sores  ?  Here,  too,  we  noticed  where  the  Indians  had 
gathered  a  heap  of  stones,  perhaps  for  their  council-fire, 
which,  by  their  weight  having  prevented  the  sand  under 
them  from  blowing  away,  were  left  on  the  summit  of  a 
mound.  They  told  us  that  arrowheads,  and  also  bullets 
of  lead  and  iron,  had  been  found  here.  We  noticed 
several  other  sandy  tracts  in  our  voyage ;  and  the  course 
of  the  Merrimack  can  be  traced  from  the  nearest  moun 
tain  by  its  yellow  sand-banks,  though  the  river  itself 
is  for  the  most  part  invisible.  Lawsuits,  as  we  hear, 
have  in  some  cases  grown  out  of  these  causes.  Railroads 
have  been  made  through  certain  irritable  districts, 
breaking  their  sod,  and  so  have  set  the  sand  to  blowing, 
till  it  has  converted  fertile  farms  into  deserts,  and  the 
company  has  had  to  pay  the  damages. 

This  sand  seemed  to  us  the  connecting  link  between 
land  and  water.  It  was  a  kind  of  water  on  which  you 
could  walk,  and  you  could  see  the  ripple-marks  on  its 


210  A  WEEK 

surface,  produced  by  the  winds,  precisely  like  those  at 
the  bottom  of  a  brook  or  lake.  We  had  read  that  Mus 
sulmans  are  permitted  by  the  Koran  to  perform  their 
ablutions  in  sand  when  they  cannot  get  water,  a  neces 
sary  indulgence  in  Arabia,  and  we  now  understood  the 
propriety  of  this  provision. 

Plum  Island,  at  the  mouth  of  this  river,  to  whose 
formation,  perhaps,  these  very  banks  have  sent  their 
contribution,  is  a  similar  desert  of  drifting  sand,  of  vari 
ous  colors,  blown  into  graceful  curves  by  the  wind.  It  is 
a  mere  sand-bar  exposed,  stretching  nine  miles  parallel 
to  the  coast,  and,  exclusive  of  the  marsh  on  the  inside, 
rarely  more  than  half  a  mile  wide.  There  are  but  half  a 
dozen  houses  on  it,  and  it  is  almost  without  a  tree,  or  a 
sod,  or  any  green  thing  with  which  a  countryman  is 
familiar.  The  thin  vegetation  stands  half  buried  in  sand, 
as  in  drifting  snow.  The  only  shrub,  the  beach  plum, 
which  gives  the  island  its  name,  grows  but  a  few  feet 
high ;  but  this  is  so  abundant  that  parties  of  a  hundred  at 
once  come  from  the  mainland  and  down  the  Merrimack, 
in  September,  pitch  their  tents,  and  gather  the  plums, 
which  are  good  to  eat  raw  and  to  preserve.  The  grace 
ful  and  delicate  beach  pea,  too,  grows  abundantly  amid 
the  sand,  and  several  strange  moss-like  and  succulent 
plants.  The  island  for  its  whole  length  is  scalloped  into 
low  hills,  not  more  than  twenty  feet  high,  by  the  wind, 
and,  excepting  a  faint  trail  on  the  edge  of  the  marsh,  is  as 
trackless  as  Sahara.  There  are  dreary  bluffs  of  sand  and 
valleys  plowed  by  the  wind,  where  you  might  expect 
to  discover  the  bones  of  a  caravan.  Schooners  come 
from  Boston  to  load  with  the  sand  for  masons'  uses, 


TUESDAY  211 

and  in  a  few  hours  the  wind  obliterates  all  traces  of  their 
work.  Yet  you  have  only  to  dig  a  foot  or  two  anywhere 
to  come  to  fresh  water;  and  you  are  surprised  to  learn 
that  woodchucks  abound  here,  and  foxes  are  found, 
though  you  see  not  where  they  can  burrow  or  hide  them 
selves.  I  have  walked  down  the  whole  length  of  its  broad 
beach  at  low  tide,  at  which  time  alone  you  can  find  a 
firm  ground  to  walk  on,  and  probably  Massachusetts 
does  not  furnish  a  more  grand  and  dreary  walk.  On  the 
seaside  there  are  only  a  distant  sail  and  a  few  coots  to 
break  the  grand  monotony.  A  solitary  stake  stuck  up, 
or  a  sharper  sand-hill  than  usual,  is  remarkable  as  a 
landmark  for  miles;  while  for  music  you  hear  only  the 
ceaseless  sound  of  the  surf,  and  the  dreary  peep  of  the 
beach-birds. 

There  were  several  canal-boats  at  Cromwell's  Falls 
passing  through  the  locks,  for  which  we  waited.  In  the 
forward  part  of  one  stood  a  brawny  New  Hampshire 
man,  leaning  on  his  pole,  bareheaded  and  in  shirt  and 
trousers  only,  a  rude  Apollo  of  a  man,  coming  down 
from  "that  vast  uplandish  country"  to  the  main;  of 
nameless  age,  with  flaxen  hair  and  vigorous,  weather- 
bleached  countenance,  in  whose  wrinkles  the  sun  still 
lodged,  as  little  touched  by  the  heats  and  frosts  and 
withering  cares  of  life  as  a  maple  of  the  mountain;  an 
undressed,  unkempt,  uncivil  man,  with  whom  we  par 
leyed  awhile,  and  parted  not  without  a  sincere  interest 
in  one  another.  His  humanity  was  genuine  and  instinc 
tive,  and  his  rudeness  only  a  manner.  He  inquired,  just 
as  we  were  passing  out  of  earshot,  if  we  had  killed  any- 


212  A  WEEK 

thing,  and  we  shouted  after  him  that  we  had  shot  a 
buoy,  and  could  see  him  for  a  long  while  scratching  his 
head  in  vain  to  know  if  he  had  heard  aright. 

There  is  reason  in  the  distinction  of  civil  and  uncivil. 
The  manners  are  sometimes  so  rough  a  rind  that  we 
doubt  whether  they  cover  any  core  or  sap-wood  at  all. 
We  sometimes  meet  uncivil  men,  children  of  Amazons, 
who  dwell  by  mountain  paths,  and  are  said  to  be  inhos 
pitable  to  strangers;  whose  salutation  is  as  rude  as  the 
grasp  of  their  brawny  hands,  and  who  deal  with  men  as 
unceremoniously  as  they  are  wont  to  deal  with  the  ele 
ments.  They  need  only  to  extend  their  clearings,  and  let 
in  more  sunlight,  to  seek  out  the  southern  slopes  of  the 
hills,  from  which  they  may  look  down  on  the  civil  plain 
or  ocean,  and  temper  their  diet  duly  with  the  cereal 
fruits,  consuming  less  wild  meat  and  acorns,  to  become 
like  the  inhabitants  of  cities.  A  true  politeness  does  not 
result  from  any  hasty  and  artificial  polishing,  it  is  true, 
but  grows  naturally  in  characters  of  the  right  grain  and 
quality,  through  a  long  fronting  of  men  and  events,  and 
rubbing  on  good  and  bad  fortune.  Perhaps  I  can  tell  a 
tale  to  the  purpose  while  the  lock  is  filling,  —  for  our 
voyage  this  forenoon  furnishes  but  few  incidents  of 
importance. 

Early  one  summer  morning  I  had  left  the  shores 
of  the  Connecticut,  and  for  the  livelong  day  traveled  up 
the  bank  of  a  river,  which  came  in  from  the  west;  now 
looking  down  on  the  stream,  foaming  and  rippling 
through  the  forest  a  mile  off,  from  the  hills  over  which 
the  road  led,  and  now  sitting  on  its  rocky  brink  and 


TUESDAY  213 

dipping  my  feet  in  its  rapids,  or  bathing  adventurously 
in  mid-channel.  The  hills  grew  more  and  more  frequent, 
and  gradually  swelled  into  mountains  as  I  advanced, 
hemming  in  the  course  of  the  river,  so  that  at  last  I  could 
not  see  where  it  came  from,  and  was  at  liberty  to  imagine 
the  most  wonderful  meanderings  and  descents.  At  noon 
I  slept  on  the  grass  in  the  shade  of  a  maple,  where  the 
river  had  found  a  broader  channel  than  usual,  and  was 
spread  out  shallow,  with  frequent  sand-bars  exposed. 
In  the  names  of  the  towns  I  recognized  some  which  I  had 
long  ago  read  on  teamsters'  wagons,  that  had  come  from 
far  up  country;  quiet  uplandish  towns,  of  mountainous 
fame.  I  walked  along,  musing  and  enchanted,  by  rows 
of  sugar  maples,  through  the  small  and  uninquisitive 
villages,  and  sometimes  was  pleased  with  the  sight  of  a 
boat  drawn  up  on  a  sand-bar,  where  there  appeared  no 
inhabitants  to  use  it.  It  seemed,  however,  as  essential 
to  the  river  as  a  fish,  and  to  lend  a  certain  dignity  to  it. 
It  was  like  the  trout  of  mountain  streams  to  the  fishes 
of  the  sea,  or  like  the  young  of  the  land  crab  born  far 
in  the  interior,  who  have  never  yet  heard  the  sound  of  the 
ocean's  surf.  The  hills  approached  nearer  and  nearer 
to  the  stream,  until  at  last  they  closed  behind  me,  and  I 
found  myself  just  before  nightfall  in  a  romantic  and 
retired  valley,  about  half  a  mile  in  length,  and  barely 
wide  enough  for  the  stream  at  its  bottom.  I  thought  that 
there  could  be  no  finer  site  for  a  cottage  among  moun 
tains.  You  could  anywhere  run  across  the  stream  on 
the  rocks,  and  its  constant  murmuring  would  quiet  the 
passions  of  mankind  forever.  Suddenly  the  road,  which 
seemed  aiming  for  the  mountain-side,  turned  short  to 


214  A  WEEK 

the  left,  and  another  valley  opened,  concealing  the  for 
mer,  and  of  the  same  character  with  it.  It  was  the  most 
remarkable  and  pleasing  scenery  I  had  ever  seen.  I 
found  here  a  few  mild  and  hospitable  inhabitants,  who, 
as  the  day  was  not  quite  spent,  and  I  was  anxious  to 
improve  the  light,  directed  me  four  or  five  miles  farther 
on  my  way  to  the  dwelling  of  a  man  whose  name  was 
Rice,  who  occupied  the  last  and  highest  of  the  valleys 
that  lay  in  my  path,  and  who,  they  said,  was  a  rather 
rude  and  uncivil  man.  But  "what  is  a  foreign  country 
to  those  who  have  science  ?  Who  is  a  stranger  to  those 
who  have  the  habit  of  speaking  kindly  ? " 

At  length,  as  the  sun  was  setting  behind  the  moun 
tains  in  a  still  darker  and  more  solitary  vale,  I  reached 
the  dwelling  of  this  man.  Except  for  the  narrowness 
of  the  plain,  and  that  the  stones  were  solid  granite,  it 
was  the  counterpart  of  that  retreat  to  which  Belphcebe 
bore  the  wounded  Timias,  — 

"In  a  pleasant  glade, 
With  mountains  round  about  environed, 
And  mighty  woods,  which  did  the  valley  shade, 
And  like  a  stately  theatre  it  made, 
Spreading  itself  into  a  spacious  plain; 
And  in  the  midst  a  little  river  played 
Amongst  the  pumy  stones  which  seemed  to  plain, 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did  restrain." 

I  observed,  as  I  drew  near,  that  he  was  not  so  rude 
as  I  had  anticipated,  for  he  kept  many  cattle,  and  dogs 
to  watch  them,  and  I  saw  where  he  had  made  maple 
sugar  on  the  sides  of  the  mountains,  and  above  all  dis 
tinguished  the  voices  of  children  mingling  with  the  mur- 


TUESDAY  215 

mur  of  the  torrent  before  the  door.  As  I  passed  his  stable, 
I  met  one  whom  I  supposed  to  be  a  hired  man,  attending 
to  his  cattle,  and  I  inquired  if  they  entertained  travelers 
at  that  house.  "  Sometimes  we  do,"  he  answered  gruffly, 
and  immediately  went  to  the  farthest  stall  from  me,  and 
I  perceived  that  it  was  Rice  himself  whom  I  had  ad 
dressed.  But  pardoning  this  incivility  to  the  wildness  of 
the  scenery,  I  bent  my  steps  to  the  house.  There  was  no 
sign-post  before  it,  nor  any  of  the  usual  invitations  to  the 
traveler,  though  I  saw  by  the  road  that  many  went  and 
came  there,  but  the  owner's  name  only  was  fastened  to 
the  outside;  a  sort  of  implied  and  sullen  invitation,  as 
I  thought.  I  passed  from  room  to  room  without  meeting 
any  one,  till  I  came  to  what  seemed  the  guests'  apart 
ment,  which  was  neat,  and  even  had  an  air  of  refinement 
about  it,  and  I  was  glad  to  find  a  map  against  the  wall 
which  would  direct  me  on  my  journey  on  the  morrow. 
At  length  I  heard  a  step  in  a  distant  apartment,  which 
was  the  first  I  had  entered,  and  went  to  see  if  the  land 
lord  had  come  in ;  but  it  proved  to  be  only  a  child,  one  of 
those  whose  voices  I  had  heard,  probably  his  son,  and 
between  him  and  me  stood  in  the  doorway  a  large  watch 
dog,  which  growled  at  me,  and  looked  as  if  he  would 
presently  spring,  but  the  boy  did  not  speak  to  him;  and 
when  I  asked  for  a  glass  of  water,  he  briefly  said,  "It 
runs  in  the  corner."  So  I  took  a  mug  from  the  counter 
and  went  out  of  doors,  and  searched  round  the  corner  of 
the  house,  but  could  find  neither  well  nor  spring,  nor  any 
water  but  the  stream  which  ran  all  along  the  front.  I 
came  back,  therefore,  and,  setting  down  the  mug,  asked 
the  child  if  the  stream  was  good  to  drink;  whereupon  he 


216  A  WEEK 

seized  the  mug,  and,  going  to  the  corner  of  the  room, 
where  a  cool  spring  which  issued  from  the  mountain 
behind  trickled  through  a  pipe  into  the  apartment,  filled 
it,  and  drank,  and  gave  it  to  me  empty  again,  and,  call 
ing  to  the  dog,  rushed  out  of  doors.  Ere  long  some  of 
the  hired  men  made  their  appearance,  and  drank  at  the 
spring,  and  lazily  washed  themselves  and  combed  their 
hair  in  silence,  and  some  sat  down  as  if  weary,  and  fell 
asleep  in  their  seats.  But  all  the  while  I  saw  no  women, 
though  I  sometimes  heard  a  bustle  in  that  part  of  the 
house  from  which  the  spring  came. 

At  length  Rice  himself  came  in,  for  it  was  now  dark, 
with  an  ox-whip  in  his  hand,  breathing  hard,  and  he  too 
soon  settled  down  into  his  seat  not  far  from  me,  as  if, 
now  that  his  day's  work  was  done,  he  had  no  farther  to 
travel,  but  only  to  digest  his  supper  at  his  leisure.  When 
I  asked  him  if  he  could  give  me  a  bed,  he  said  there  was 
one  ready,  in  such  a  tone  as  implied  that  I  ought  to  have 
known  it,  and  the  less  said  about  that  the  better.  So 
far  so  good.  And  yet  he  continued  to  look  at  me  as  if  he 
would  fain  have  me  say  something  further  like  a  traveler. 
I  remarked  that  it  was  a  wild  and  rugged  country  he 
inhabited,  and  worth  coming  many  miles  to  see.  "  Not 
so  very  rough  neither,"  said  he,  and  appealed  to  his  men 
to  bear  witness  to  the  breadth  and  smoothness  of  his 
fields,  which  consisted  in  all  of  one  small  interval,  and  to 
the  size  of  his  crops;  "  and  if  we  have  some  hills,"  added 
he,  "there's  no  better  pasturage  anywhere."  I  then 
asked  if  this  place  was  the  one  I  had  heard  of,  calling  it 
by  a  name  I  had  seen  on  the  map,  or  if  it  was  a  certain 
other;  and  he  answered,  gruffly,  that  it  was  neither  the 


TUESDAY  217 

one  nor  the  other;  that  he  had  settled  it  and  cultivated 
it,  and  made  it  what  it  was,  and  I  could  know  nothing 
about  it.  Observing  some  guns  and  other  implements  of 
hunting  hanging  on  brackets  around  the  room,  and  his 
hounds  now  sleeping  on  the  floor,  I  took  occasion  to 
change  the  discourse,  and  inquired  if  there  was  much 
game  in  that  country,  and  he  answered  this  question 
more  graciously,  having  some  glimmering  of  my  drift; 
but  when  I  inquired  if  there  were  any  bears,  he  answered 
impatiently  that  he  was  no  more  in  danger  of  losing  his 
sheep  than  his  neighbors;  he  had  tamed  and  civilized 
that  region.  After  a  pause,  thinking  of  my  journey  on 
the  morrow,  and  the  few  hours  of  daylight  in  that  hollow 
and  mountainous  country,  which  would  require  me  to  be 
on  my  way  betimes,  I  remarked  that  the  day  must  be 
shorter  by  an  hour  there  than  on  the  neighboring  plains ; 
at  which  he  gruffly  asked  what  I  knew  about  it,  and 
affirmed  that  he  had  as  much  daylight  as  his  neighbors ; 
he  ventured  to  say,  the  days  were  longer  there  than  where 
I  lived,  as  I  should  find  if  I  stayed ;  that  in  some  way,  I 
could  not  be  expected  to  understand  how,  the  sun  came 
over  the  mountains  half  an  hour  earlier,  and  stayed  half 
an  hour  later  there  than  on  the  neighboring  plains.  And 
mo're  of  like  sort  he  said.  He  was,  indeed,  as  rude  as  a 
fabled  satyr.  But  I  suffered  him  to  pass  for  what  he  was, 
—  for  why  should  I  quarrel  with  nature  ?  —  and  was 
even  pleased  at  the  discovery  of  such  a  singular  natural 
phenomenon.  I  dealt  with  him  as  if  to  me  all  manners 
were  indifferent,  and  he  had  a  sweet,  wild  way  with  him. 
I  would  not  question  nature,  and  I  would  rather  have 
him  as  he  was  than  as  I  would  have  him.  For  I  had 


218  A  WEEK 

come  up  here  not  for  sympathy,  or  kindness,  or  society, 
but  for  novelty  and  adventure,  and  to  see  what  nature 
had  produced  here.  I  therefore  did  not  repel  his  rude 
ness,  but  quite  innocently  welcomed  it  all,  and  knew 
how  to  appreciate  it,  as  if  I  were  reading  in  an  old  drama 
a  part  well  sustained.  He  was  indeed  a  coarse  and  sen- 
/  sual  man,  and,  as  I  have  said,  uncivil,  but  he  had  his 
I  just  quarrel  with  nature  and  mankind,  I  have  no  doubt, 
only  he  had  no  artificial  covering  to  his  ill-humors.  He 
was  earthy  enough,  but  yet  there  was  good  soil  in  him, 
and  even  a  long-suffering  Saxon  probity  at  bottom.  If 
you  could  represent  the  case  to  him,  he  would  not  let  the 
race  die  out  in  him,  like  a  red  Indian. 

At  length  I  told  him  that  he  was  a  fortunate  man, 
and  I  trusted  that  he  was  grateful  for  so  much  light; 
and,  rising,  said  I  would  take  a  lamp,  and  that  I  would 
pay  him  then  for  my  lodging,  for  I  expected  to  recom 
mence  my  journey  even  as  early  as  the  sun  rose  in  his 
country;  but  he  answered  in  haste,  and  this  time  civilly, 
that  I  should  not  fail  to  find  some  of  his  household  stir 
ring,  however  early,  for  they  were  no  sluggards,  and  I 
could  take  my  breakfast  with  them  before  I  started,  if  I 
chose;  and  as  he  lighted  the  lamp  I  detected  a  gleam  of 
true  hospitality  and  ancient  civility,  a  beam  of  pure  and 
even  gentle  humanity,  from  his  bleared  and  moist  eyes. 
It  was  a  look  more  intimate  with  me,  and  more  explana 
tory,  than  any  words  of  his  could  have  been  if  he  had 
tried  to  his  dying  day.  It  was  more  significant  than 
any  Rice  of  those  parts  could  even  comprehend,  and 
long  anticipated  this  man's  culture,  —  a  glance  of  his 
pure  genius,  which  did  not  much  enlighten  him,  but  did 


TUESDAY  219 

impress  and  rule  him  for  the  moment,  and  faintly  con 
strain  his  voice  and  manner.  He  cheerfully  led  the  way 
to  my  apartment,  stepping  over  the  limbs  of  his  men, 
who  were  asleep  on  the  floor  in  an  intervening  chamber, 
and  showed  me  a  clean  and  comfortable  bed.  For  many 
pleasant  hours  after  the  household  was  asleep  I  sat  at  the 
open  window,  for  it  was  a  sultry  night,  and  heard  the 
little  river 

"Amongst  the  pumy  stones,  which  seemed  to  plain, 
With  gentle  murmur,  that  his  course  they  did  restrain." 

But  I  arose  as  usual  by  starlight  the  next  morning,  be 
fore  my  host,  or  his  men,  or  even  his  dogs,  were  awake; 
and,  having  left  a  ninepence  on  the  counter,  was  already 
halfway  over  the  mountain  with  the  sun  before  they 
had  broken  their  fast. 

Before  I  had  left  the  country  of  my  host,  while  the 
first  rays  of  the  sun  slanted  over  the  mountains,  as  I 
stopped  by  the  wayside  to  gather  some  raspberries,  a 
very  old  man,  not  far  from  a  hundred,  came  along  with 
a  milking-pail  in  his  hand,  and  turning  aside  began 
to  pluck  the  berries  near  me :  — 

"His  reverend  locks 
In  comelye  curies  did  wave ; 
And  on  his  aged  temples  grew 
The  blossoms  of  the  grave." 

But  when  I  inquired  the  way,  he  answered  in  a  low, 
rough  voice,  without  looking  up  or  seeming  to  regard  my 
presence,  which  I  imputed  to  his  years;  and  presently, 
muttering  to  himself,  he  proceeded  to  collect  his  cows  in 
a  neighboring  pasture;  and  when  he  had  again  returned 


220  A  WEEK 

near  to  the  wayside,  he  suddenly  stopped,  while  his  cows 
went  on  before,  and,  uncovering  his  head,  prayed  aloud 
in  the  cool  morning  air,  as  if  he  had  forgotten  this  exer 
cise  before,  for  his  daily  bread,  and  also  that  He  who 
letteth  his  rain  fall  on  the  just  and  on  the  unjust,  and 
without  whom  not  a  sparrow  falleth  to  the  ground,  would 
not  neglect  the  stranger  (meaning  me),  and  with  even 
more  direct  and  personal  applications,  though  mainly 
according  to  the  long-established  formula  common  to 
lowlanders  and  the  inhabitants  of  mountains.  When  he 
had  done  praying,  I  made  bold  to  ask  him  if  he  had  any 
cheese  in  his  hut  which  he  would  sell  me,  but  he  an 
swered  without  looking  up,  and  in  the  same  low  and 
repulsive  voice  as  before,  that  they  did  not  make  any, 
and  went  to  milking.  It  is  written,  "  The  stranger  who 
turneth  away  from  a  house  with  disappointed  hopes, 
leaveth  there  his  own  offenses,  and  departeth,  taking 
with  him  all  the  good  actions  of  the  owner." 

Being  now  fairly  in  the  stream  of  this  week's  com 
merce,  we  began  to  meet  with  boats  more  frequently, 


.  *r  v, 
flV"      V" 

A  / 

"  *  \r 


and  hailed  them  from  time  to  time  with  the  freedom  of 


sailors.  The  boatmen  appeared  to  lead  an  easy  and 
contented  life,  and  we  thought  that  we  should  prefer 
their  employment  ourselves  to  many  professions  which 
are  much  more  sought  after.  They  suggested  how 
few  circumstances  are  necessary  to  the  well-being  and 
serenity  of  man,  how  indifferent  all  employments  are, 
and  that  any  may  seem  noble  and  poetic  to  the  eyes  of 
men,  if  pursued  with  sufficient  buoyancy  and  freedom. 
With  liberty  and  pleasant  weather,  the  simplest  occupa- 


TUESDAY  221 

tion,  any  unquestioned  country  mode  of  life  which 
detains  us  in  the  open  air,  is  alluring.  The  man  who 
picks  peas  steadily  for  a  living  is  more  than  respectable, 
he  is  even  envied  by  his  shop-worn  neighbors.  We  are 
as  happy  as  the  birds  when  our  Good  Genius  permits  us 
to  pursue  any  outdoor  work,  without  a  sense  of  dissi 
pation.  Our  penknife  glitters  in  the  sun ;  our  voice  is 
echoed  by  yonder  wood ;  if  an  oar  drops,  we  are  fain  to 
let  it  drop  again. 

The  canal-boat  is  of  very  simple  construction,  requir 
ing  but  little  ship-timber,  and,  as  we  were  told,  costs 
about  two  hundred  dollars.  They  are  managed  by  two 
men.  In  ascending  the  stream  they  use  poles  fourteen 
or  fifteen  feet  long,  pointed  with  iron,  walking  about 
one  third  the  length  of  the  boat  from  the  forward  end. 
Going  down,  they  commonly  keep  in  the  middle  of  the 
stream,  using  an  oar  at  each  end ;  or  if  the  wind  is  favor 
able  they  raise  their  broad  sail,  and  have  only  to  steer. 
They  commonly  carry  down  wood  or  bricks,  —  fifteen 
or  sixteen  cords  of  wood,  and  as  many  thousand  bricks, 
at  a  time,  —  and  bring  back  stores  for  the  country,  con 
suming  two  or  three  days  each  way  between  Concord 
and  Charlestown.  They  sometimes  pile  the  wood  so  as 
to  leave  a  shelter  in  one  part  where  they  may  retire  from 
the  rain.  One  can  hardly  imagine  a  more  healthful 
employment,  or  one  more  favorable  to  contemplation 
and  the  observation  of  nature.  Unlike  the  mariner, 
they  have  the  constantly  varying  panorama  of  the  shore 
to  relieve  the  monotonv  of  their  labor,  and  it  seemed 
to  us  that  as  they  thus  glided  noiselessly  from  town  to 
town,  with  all  their  furniture  about  them,  for  their  very 


222  A  WEEK 

homestead  is  a  movable,  they  could  comment  on  the 
character  of  the  inhabitants  with  greater  advantage 
and  security  to  themselves  than  the  traveler  in  a  coach, 
who  would  be  unable  to  indulge  in  such  broadsides  of 
wit  and  humor  in  so  small  a  vessel  for  fear  of  the  recoil. 
They  are  not  subject  to  great  exposure,  like  the  lum 
berers  of  Maine,  in  any  weather,  but  inhale  the  health- 
fulest  breezes,  being  slightly  incumbered  with  clothing, 
frequently  with  the  head  and  feet  bare.  When  we  met 
them  at  noon,  as  they  were  leisurely  descending  the 
stream,  their  busy  commerce  did  not  look  like  toil,  but 
rather  like  some  ancient  Oriental  game  still  played  on  a 
large  scale,  as  the  game  of  chess,  for  instance,  handed 
down  to  this  generation.  From  morning  till  night,  unless 
the  wind  is  so  fair  that  his  single  sail  will  suffice  without 
other  labor  than  steering,  the  boatman  walks  backwards 
and  forwards  on  the  side  of  his  boat,  now  stooping  with 
his  shoulder  to  the  pole,  then  drawing  it  back  slowly  to 
set  it  again,  meanwhile  moving  steadily  forward  through 
an  endless  valley  and  an  ever-changing  scenery,  now  dis 
tinguishing  his  course  for  a  mile  or  two,  and  now  shut  in 
by  a  sudden  turn  of  the  river  in  a  small  woodland  lake. 
All  the  phenomena  which  surround  him  are  simple  and 
grand,  and  there  is  something  impressive,  even  majestic, 
in  the  very  motion  he  causes,  which  will  naturally  be 
communicated  to  his  own  character,  and  he  feels  the 
slow,  irresistible  movement  under  him  with  pride,  as  if  it 
were  his  own  energy. 

The  news  spread  like  wildfire  among  us  youths,  when 
formerly,  once  in  a  year  or  two,  one  of  these  boats  came 
up  the  Concord  River,  and  was  seen  stealing  mysteri- 


TUESDAY  223 

ously  through  the  meadows  and  past  the  village.  It  came 
and  departed  as  silently  as  a  cloud,  without  noise  or 
dust,  and  was  witnessed  by  few.  One  summer  day  this 
huge  traveler  might  be  seen  moored  at  some  meadow's 
wharf,  and  another  summer  day  it  was  not  there.  Where 
precisely  it  came  from,  or  who  these  men  were  who 
knew  the  rocks  and  soundings  better  than  we  who  bathed 
there,  we  could  never  tell.  We  knew  some  river's  bay 
only,  but  they  took  rivers  from  end  to  end.  They  were  a 
sort  of  fabulous  rivermen  to  us.  It  was  inconceivable  by 
what  sort  of  mediation  any  mere  landsman  could  hold 
communication  with  them.  Would  they  heave  to,  to 
gratify  his  wishes  ?  No,  it  was  favor  enough  to  know 
faintly  of  their  destination,  or  the  time  of  their  possible 
return.  I  have  seen  them  in  the  summer,  when  the 
stream  ran  low,  mowing  the  weeds  in  mid-channel,  and 
with  hayers'  jests  cutting  broad  swaths  in  three  feet  of 
water,  that  they  might  make  a  passage  for  their  scow, 
while  the  grass  in  long  windrows  was  carried  down  the 
stream,  undried  by  the  rarest  hay  weather.  We  admired 
unweariedly  how  their  vessel  would  float,  like  a  huge 
chip,  sustaining  so  many  casks  of  lime,  and  thousands 
of  bricks,  and  such  heaps  of  iron  ore,  with  wheelbar 
rows  aboard,  and  that,  when  we  stepped  on  it,  it  did  not 
yield  to  the  pressure  of  our  feet.  It  gave  us  confidence  in 
the  prevalence  of  the  law  of  buoyancy,  and  we  imagined 
to  what  infinite  uses  it  might  be  put.  The  men  appeared 
to  lead  a  kind  of  life  on  it,  and  it  was  whispered  that  they 
slept  aboard.  Some  affirmed  that  it  carried  sail,  and  that 
such  winds  blew  here  as  filled  the  sails  of  vessels  on  the 
ocean;  which  again  others  much  doubted.  They  had 


224  A  WEEK 

been  seen  to  sail  across  our  Fair  Haven  Bay  by  lucky 
fishers  who  were  out,  but  unfortunately  others  were  not 
there  to  see.  We  might  then  say  that  our  river  was  navi 
gable,  —  why  not  ?  In  after  years  I  read  in  print,  with  no 
little  satisfaction,  that  it  was  thought  by  some  that,  with 
a  little  expense  in  removing  rocks  and  deepening  the 
channel,  "there  might  be  a  profitable  inland  naviga 
tion."  /  then  lived  somewhere  to  tell  of. 

Such  is  Commerce,  which  shakes  the  cocoanut  and 
bread-fruit  tree  in  the  remotest  isle,  and  sooner  or  later 
dawns  on  the  duskiest  and  most  simple-minded  savage. 
If  we  may  be  pardoned  the  digression,  who  can  help 
being  affected  at  the  thought  of  the  very  fine  and  slight, 
but  positive  relation,  in  which  the  savage  inhabitants 
of  some  remote  isle  stand  to  the  mysterious  white  mar 
iner,  the  child  of  the  sun  ?  —  as  if  we  were  to  have  deal 
ings  with  an  animal  higher  in  the  scale  of  being  than 
ourselves.  It  is  a  barely  recognized  fact  to  the  natives 
that  he  exists,  and  has  his  home  far  away  somewhere, 
and  is  glad  to  buy  their  fresh  fruits  with  his  superfluous 
commodities.  Under  the  same  catholic  sun  glances  his 
white  ship  over  Pacific  waves  into  their  smooth  bays, 
and  the  poor  savage's  paddle  gleams  in  the  air. 

Man's  little  acts  are  grand, 
Beheld  from  land  to  land, 
There  as  they  lie  in  time, 
Within  their  native  clime. 

Ships  with  the  noontide  weigh, 

And  glide  before  its  ray 

To  some  retired  bay, 

Their  haunt, 

Whence,  under  tropic  sun, 


TUESDAY  225 

Again  they  run, 

Bearing  gum  Senegal  and  Tragicant. 
For  this  was  ocean  meant, 
For  this  the  sun  was  sent, 
And  moon  was  lent, 
And  winds  in  distant  caverns  pent. 


Since  our  voyage  the  railroad  on  the  bank  has  been 
extended,  and  there  is  now  but  little  boating  on  the 
Merrimack.  All  kinds  of  produce  and  stores  were  for 
merly  conveyed  by  water,  but  now  nothing  is  carried 
up  the  stream,  and  almost  wood  and  bricks  alone  are 
carried  down,  and  these  are  also  carried  on  the  railroad. 
The  locks  are  fast  wearing  out,  and  will  soon  be  impass 
able,  since  the  tolls  will  not  pay  the  expense  of  repairing 
them,  and  so  in  a  few  years  there  will  be  an  end  of 
boating  on  this  river.  The  boating  at  present  is  princi 
pally  between  Merrimack  and  Lowell,  or  Hooksett  and 
Manchester.  They  make  two  or  three  trips  in  a  week, 
according  to  wind  and  weather,  from  Merrimack  to 
Lowell  and  back,  about  twenty-five  miles  each  way. 
The  boatman  comes  singing  in  to  shore  late  at  night, 
and  moors  his  empty  boat,  and  gets  his  supper  and  lodg 
ing  in  some  house  near  at  hand,  and  again  early  in 
the  morning,  by  starlight  perhaps,  he  pushes  away  up 
stream,  and,  by  a  shout,  or  the  fragment  of  a  song,  gives 
notice  of  his  approach  to  the  lock-man,  with  whom  he  is 
to  take  his  breakfast.  If  he  gets  up  to  his  wood-pile 
before  noon  he  proceeds  to  load  his  boat,  with  the  help 
of  his  single  "hand,"  and  is  on  his  way  down  again 
before  night.  When  he  gets  to  Lowell  he  unloads  his 
boat,  and  gets  his  receipt  for  his  cargo,  and,  having  heard 


226  A  WEEK 

the  news  at  the  public  house  at  Middlesex  or  elsewhere, 
goes  back  with  his  empty  boat  and  his  receipt  in  his 
pocket  to  the  owner,  and  to  get  a  new  load.  We  were 
frequently  advertised  of  their  approach  by  some  faint 
sound  behind  us,  and  looking  round  saw  them  a  mile  off, 
creeping  stealthily  up  the  side  of  the  stream  like  alliga 
tors.  It  was  pleasant  to  hail  these  sailors  of  the  Merri- 
mack  from  time  to  time,  and  learn  the  news  which  cir 
culated  with  them.  We  imagined  that  the  sun  shining 
on  their  bare  heads  had  stamped  a  liberal  and  public 
character  on  their  most  private  thoughts. 

The  open  and  sunny  interval  still  stretched  away  from 
the  river  sometimes  by  two  or  more  terraces,  to  the  dis 
tant  hill-country,  and  when  we  climbed  the  bank,  we 
commonly  found  an  irregular  copse-wood  skirting  the 
river,  the  primitive  having  floated  down-stream  long  ago 

to ,  the  "King's  navy."    Sometimes  we  saw  the 

river  road  a  quarter  or  half  a  mile  distant,  and  the  parti 
colored  Concord  stage,  with  its  cloud  of  dust,  its  van  of 
earnest  traveling  faces,  and  its  rear  of  dusty  trunks, 
reminding  us  that  the  country  had  its  places  of  rendez 
vous  for  restless  Yankee  men.  There  dwelt  along  at 
considerable  distances  on  this  interval  a  quiet  agricul 
tural  and  pastoral  people,  with  every  house  its  well,  as 
we  sometimes  proved,  and  every  household,  though 
never  so  still  and  remote  it  appeared  in  the  noontide,  its 
dinner  about  these  times.  There  they  lived  on,  those 
New  England  people,  farmer  lives,  father  and  grand 
father  and  great-grandfather,  on  and  on  without  noise, 
keeping  up  tradition,  and  expecting,  beside  fair  weather 
and  abundant  harvests,  we  did  not  learn  what.  They 


TUESDAY  227 

were  contented  to  live,  since  it  was  so  contrived  for  them, 
and  where  their  lines  had  fallen. 

Our  uninquiring  corpses  lie  more  low 
Than  our  life's  curiosity  doth  go. 

Yet  these  men  had  no  need  to  travel  to  be  as  wise  as 
Solomon  in  all  his  glory,  so  similar  are  the  lives  of  men 
in  all  countries,  and  fraught  with  the  same  homely 
experiences.  One  half  the  world  knows  how  the  other 
half  lives. 

About  noon  we  passed  a  small  village  in  Merrimack 
at  Thornton's  Ferry,  and  tasted  of  the  waters  of  Nati- 
cook  Brook  on  the  same  side,  where  French  and  his 
companions,  whose  grave  we  saw  in  Dunstable,  were 
ambuscaded  by  the  Indians.  The  humble  village  of 
Litchfield,  with  its  steepleless  meeting-house,  stood  on 
the  opposite  or  east  bank,  near  where  a  dense  grove  of 
willows  backed  by  maples  skirted  the  shore.  There  also 
we  noticed  some  shagbark  trees,  which,  as  they  do  not 
grow  in  Concord,  were  as  strange  a  sight  to  us  as  the 
palm  would  be,  whose  fruit  only  we  have  seen.  Our 
course  now  curved  gracefully  to  the  north,  leaving  a  low, 
flat  shore  on  the  Merrimack  side,  which  forms  a  sort 
of  harbor  for  canal-boats.  We  observed  some  fair  elms 
and  particularly  large  and  handsome  white  maples 
standing  conspicuously  on  this  interval;  and  the  oppo 
site  shore,  a  quarter  of  a  mile  below,  was  covered  with 
young  elms  and  maples  six  inches  high,  which  had 
probably  sprung  from  the  seeds  which  had  been  washed 
across. 

Some  carpenters  were  at  work  here  mending  a  scow 
on  the  green  and  sloping  bank.  The  strokes  of  their 


228  A  WEEK 

mallets  echoed  from  shore  to  shore,  and  up  and  down 
the  river,  and  their  tools  gleamed  in  the  sun  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  from  us,  and  we  realized  that  boat-building  was 
as  ancient  and  honorable  an  art  as  agriculture,  and  that 
there  might  be  a  naval  as  well  as  a  pastoral  life.  The 
whole  history  of  commerce  was  made  manifest  in  that 
scow  turned  bottom  upward  on  the  shore.  Thus  did  men 
begin  to  go  down  upon  the  sea  in  ships;  quaeque  diu 
steterant  in  montibus  altis,  Fluctibus  ignotis  insultavere 
carinae;  "and  keels  which  had  long  stood  on  high 
mountains  careered  insultingly  (insultavere)  over  un 
known  waves."  l 

We  thought  that  it  would  be  well  for  the  traveler  to 
build  his  boat  on  the  bank  of  a  stream,  instead  of  finding 
a  ferry  or  a  bridge.  In  the  Adventures  of  Henry  the  fur- 
trader,  it  is  pleasant  to  read  that  when  with  his  Indians 
he  reached  the  shore  of  Ontario,  they  consumed  two 
days  in  making  two  canoes  of  the  bark  of  the  elm  tree, 
in  which  to  transport  themselves  to  Fort  Niagara.  It  is 
a  worthy  incident  in  a  journey,  a  delay  as  good  as  much 
rapid  traveling.  A  good  share  of  our  interest  in  Xeno- 
phon's  story  of  his  retreat  is  in  the  manoeuvres  to  get  the 
army  safely  over  the  rivers,  whether  on  rafts  of  logs  or 
fagots,  or  sheepskins  blown  up.  And  where  could  they 
better  afford  to  tarry  meanwhile  than  on  the  banks  of  a 
river? 

As  we  glided  past  at  a  distance,  these  outdoor  work 
men  appeared  to  have  added  some  dignity  to  their  labor 
by  its  very  publicness.   It  was  a  part  of  the  industry  of 
nature,  like  the  work  of  hornets  and  mud  wasps. 
1  Ovid,  Met.  I.  133. 


TUESDAY  229 

The  waves  slowly  beat, 
Just  to  keep  the  noon  sweet, 
And  no  sound  is  floated  o'er, 
Save  the  mallet  on  shore, 
Which  echoing  on  high 
Seems  a-calking  the  sky. 

The  haze,  the  sun's  dust  of  travel,  had  a  Lethean  influ 
ence  on  the  land  and  its  inhabitants,  and  all  creatures 
resigned  themselves  to  float  upon  the  inappreciable  tides 
of  nature. 

Woof  of  the  sun,  ethereal  gauze, 
Woven  of  Nature's  richest  stuffs, 
Visible  heat,  air-water,  and  dry  sea, 
Last  conquest  of  the  eye; 
Toil  of  the  day  displayed,  sun-dust, 
Aerial  surf  upon  the  shores  of  earth, 
Ethereal  estuary,  frith  of  light, 
Breakers  of  air,  billows  of  heat, 
Fine  summer  spray  on  inland  seas; 
Bird  of  the  sun,  transparent-winged 
Owlet  of  noon,  soft-pinioned, 
From  heath  or  stubble  rising  without  song; 
Establish  thy  serenity  o'er  the  fields. 

The  routine  which  is  in  the  sunshine  and  the  finest 
days,  as  that  which  has  conquered  and  prevailed,  com 
mends  itself  to  us  by  its  very  antiquity  and  apparent 
solidity  and  necessity.  Our  weakness  needs  it,  and  our 
strength  uses  it.  We  cannot  draw  on  our  boots  without 
bracing  ourselves  against  it.  If  there  were  but  one  erect 
and  solid-standing  tree  in  the  woods,  all  creatures  would 
go  to  rub  against  it  and  make  sure  of  their  footing.  Dur 
ing  the  many  hours  which  we  spend  in  this  waking  sleep, 
the  hand  stands  still  on  the  face  of  the  clock,  and  we 


230  A  WEEK 

grow  like  corn  in  the  night.  Men  are  as  busy  as  the 
brooks  or  bees,  and  postpone  everything  to  their  business ; 
as  carpenters  discuss  politics  between  the  strokes  of  the 
hammer  while  they  are  shingling  a  roof. 

This  noontide  was  a  fit  occasion  to  make  some 
pleasant  harbor,  and  there  read  the  journal  of  some 
voyageur  like  ourselves,  not  too  moral  nor  inquisitive, 
and  which  would  not  disturb  the  noon;  or  else  some 
old  classic,  the  very  flower  of  all  reading,  which  we  had 
postponed  to  such  a  season 

"Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure." 

But,  alas,  our  chest,  like  the  cabin  of  a  coaster,  con 
tained  only  its  well-thumbed  "Navigator"  for  all  litera 
ture,  and  we  were  obliged  to  draw  on  our  memory  for 
these  things. 

We  naturally  remembered  Alexander  Henry's  Adven 
tures  here,  as  a  sort  of  classic  among  books  of  American 
travel.  It  contains  scenery  and  rough  sketching  of  men 
and  incidents  enough  to  inspire  poets  for  many  years, 
and  to  my  fancy  is  as  full  of  sounding  names  as  any  page 
of  history,  —  Lake  Winnipeg,  Hudson's  Bay,  Ottaway, 
and  portages  innumerable;  Chippeways,  Gens  de  Terres, 
Les  Pilleurs,  The  Weepers;  with  reminiscences  of 
Hearne's  journey,  and  the  like;  an  immense  and  shaggy 
but  sincere  country,  summer  and  winter,  adorned  with 
chains  of  lakes  and  rivers,  covered  with  snows,  with 
hemlocks,  and  fir  trees.  There  is  a  naturalness,  an  un 
pretending  and  cold  life  in  this  traveler,  as  in  a  Canadian 
winter,  what  life  was  preserved  through  low  tempera 
tures  and  frontier  dangers  by  furs  within  a  stout  heart. 


TUESDAY  231 

He  has  truth  and  moderation  worthy  of  the  father  of 
history,  which  belong  only  to  an  intimate  experience, 
and  he  does  not  defer  too  much  to  literature.  The 
unlearned  traveler  may  quote  his  single  line  from  the 
poets  with  as  good  right  as  the  scholar.  He  too  may 
speak  of  the  stars,  for  he  sees  them  shoot  perhaps  when 
the  astronomer  does  not.  The  good  sense  of  this  author 
is  very  conspicuous.  He  is  a  traveler  who  does  not  exag 
gerate,  but  writes  for  the  information  of  his  readers,  for 
science,  and  for  history.  His  story  is  told  with  as  much 
good  faith  and  directness  as  if  it  were  a  report  to  his 
brother  traders,  or  the  Directors  of  the  Hudson's  Bay 
Company,  and  is  fitly  dedicated  to  Sir  Joseph  Banks. 
It  reads  like  the  argument  to  a  great  poem  on  the  primi 
tive  state  of  the  country  and  its  inhabitants,  and  the 
reader  imagines  what  in  each  case,  with  the  invocation 
of  the  Muse,  might  be  sung,  and  leaves  off  with  sus 
pended  interest,  as  if  the  full  account  were  to  follow. 
In  what  school  was  this  fur-trader  educated  ?  He  seems 
to  travel  the  immense  snowy  country  with  such  purpose 
only  as  the  reader  who  accompanies  him,  and  to  the 
latter's  imagination,  it  is,  as  it  were,  momentarily  created 
to  be  the  scene  of  his  adventures.  What  is  most  interest 
ing  and  valuable  in  it,  however,  is  not  the  materials  for 
the  history  of  Pontiac,  or  Braddock,  or  the  Northwest, 
which  it  furnishes ;  not  the  annals  of  the  country,  but  the 
natural  facts,  or  perennials,  which  are  ever  without  date. 
When  out  of  history  the  truth  shall  be  extracted,  it  will 
have  shed  its  dates  like  withered  leaves. 

The  Souhegan,  or  Crooked  River,  as  some  translate 


A  WEEK 

it,  comes  in  from  the  west  about  a  mile  and  a  half  above 
Thornton's  Ferry.  Babboosuck  Brook  empties  into  it 
near  its  mouth.  There  are  said  to  be  some  of  the  finest 
water  privileges  in  the  country  still  unimproved  on  the 
former  stream,  at  a  short  distance  from  the  Merrimack. 
One  spring  morning,  March  22,  in  the  year  1677,  an 
incident  occurred  on  the  banks  of  the  river  here,  which 
is  interesting  to  us  as  a  slight  memorial  of  an  interview 
between  two  ancient  tribes  of  men,  one  of  which  is  now 
extinct,  while  the  other,  though  it  is  still  represented  by  a 
miserable  remnant,  has  long  since  disappeared  from  its 
ancient  hunting-grounds.  A  Mr.  James  Parker,  at  "  Mr. 
Hinchmanne's  farme  ner  Meremack,"  wrote  thus  "to 
the  Honred  Governer  and  Council  at  Bostown,  Hast, 
Post  Hast:"  — 

"Sagamore  Wanalancet  come  this  morning  to  in- 
forme  me,  and  then  went  to  Mr.  Tyng's  to  informe  him, 
that  his  son  being  on  ye  other  sid  of  Meremack  river  over 
against  Souhegan  upon  the  22  day  of  this  instant,  about 
tene  of  the  clock  in  the  morning,  he  discovered  15  Indians 
on  this  sid  the  river,  which  he  soposed  to  be  Mohokes  by 
ther  spech.  He  called  to  them;  they  answered  but  he 
could  not  understand  ther  spech ;  and  he  having  a  conow 
ther  in  the  river,  he  went  to  breck  his  conow  that  they 
might  not  have  ani  ues  of  it.  In  the  mean  time  they  shot 
about  thirty  guns  at  him,  and  he  being  much  frighted 
fled,  and  come  home  forthwith  to  Nahamcock  [Paw- 
tucket  Falls  or  Lowell],  wher  ther  wigowames  now 
stand." 

Penacooks  and  Mohawks!  ubique  gentium  sunt? 
In  the  year  1670,  a  Mohawk  warrior  scalped  a  Naam- 


TUESDAY  233 

keak  or  else  a  Wamesit  Indian  maiden  near  where 
Lowell  now  stands.  She,  however,  recovered.  Even  as 
late  as  1685,  John  Hogkins,  a  Penacook  Indian,  who 
describes  his  grandfather  as  having  lived  "at  place 
called  Malamake  rever,  other  name  chef  Natukkog  and 
Panukkog,  that  one  rever  great  many  names,"  wrote 
thus  to  the  governor:  — 

"May  15th,  1685. 
"Honor  governor  my  friend,  — 

"You  my  friend  I  desire  your  worship  and  your 
power,  because  I  hope  you  can  do  som  great  matters 
this  one.  I  am  poor  and  naked  and  I  have  no  men 
at  my  place  because  I  afraid  allwayes  Mohogs  he  will 
kill  me  every  day  and  night.  If  your  worship  when 
please  pray  help  me  you  no  let  Mohogs  kill  me  at  my 
place  at  Malamake  river  called  Pannukkog  and  Na 
tukkog,  I  will  submit  your  worship  and  your  power. 
And  now  I  want  pouder  and  such  alminishon  shatt 
and  guns,  because  I  have  forth  at  my  horn  and  I  plant 
theare. 

"  This  all  Indian  hand,  but  pray  you  do  consider  your 
humble  servant, 

JOHN  HOGKINS." 

Signed  also  by  Simon  Detogkom,  King  Hary,  Sam 
Linis,  Mr.  Jorge  Rodunnonukgus,  John  Owamosimmin, 
and  nine  other  Indians,  with  their  marks  against  their 
names. 

But  now,  one  hundred  and  fifty-four  years  having 
elapsed  since  the  date  of  this  letter,  we  went  unalarmed 
on  our  way  without  "  brecking  "  our  "  conow,"  reading 


234  A  WEEK 

the  New  England  Gazetteer,  and  seeing  no  traces  of 
"  Mohogs  "  on  the  banks. 

The  Souhegan,  though  a  rapid  river,  seemed  to-day 
to  have  borrowed  its  character  from  the  noon. 

Where  gleaming  fields  of  haze 
Meet  the  voyageur's  gaze, 
And  above,  the  heated  air 
Seems  to  make  a  river  there, 
The  pines  stand  up  with  pride 
By  the  Souhegan's  side, 
And  the  hemlock  and  the  larch 
With  their  triumphal  arch 
Are  waving  o'er  its  march 

To  the  sea. 

No  wind  stirs  its  waves, 
But  the  spirits  of  the  braves 

Hov'ring  o'er, 
Whose  antiquated  graves 
Its  still  water  laves 

On  the  shore. 

With  an  Indian's  stealthy  tread 
It  goes  sleeping  in  its  bed, 
Without  joy  or  grief, 
Or  the  rustle  of  a  leaf, 
Without  a  ripple  or  a  billow, 
Or  the  sigh  of  a  willow, 
From  the  Lyndeboro'  hills 
To  the  Merrimack  mills. 
With  a  louder  din 
Did  its  current  begin, 
When  melted  the  snow 
On  the  far  mountain's  brow. 
And  the  drops  came  together 
In  that  rainy  weather. 
Experienced  river, 
Hast  thou  flowed  forever? 
Souhegan  soundeth  old, 


TUESDAY  235 

But  the  half  is  not  told,— 

What  names  hast  thou  borne, 

In  the  ages  far  gone, 

When  the  Xanthus  and  Meander 

Commenced  to  wander, 

Ere  the  black  bear  haunted 

Thy  red  forest-floor, 
Or  Nature  had  planted 

The  pines  by  thy  shore  ? 

During  the  heat  of  the  day,  we  rested  on  a  large  island 
a  mile  above  the  mouth  of  this  river,  pastured  by  a  herd 
of  cattle,  with  steep  banks  and  scattered  elms  and  oaks, 
and  a  sufficient  channel  for  canal-boats  on  each  side. 
When  we  made  a  fire  to  boil  some  rice  for  our  dinner, 
the  flames  spreading  amid  the  dry  grass,  and  the  smoke 
curling  silently  upward  and  casting  grotesque  shadows 
on  the  ground,  seemed  phenomena  of  the  noon,  and  we 
fancied  that  we  progressed  up  the  stream  without  effort, 
and  as  naturally  as  the  wind  and  tide  went  down,  not 
outraging  the  calm  days  by  unworthy  bustle  or  impa 
tience.  The  woods  on  the  neighboring  shore  were  alive 
with  pigeons,  which  were  moving  south,  looking  for 
mast,  but  now,  like  ourselves,  spending  their  noon  in  the 
shade.  We  could  hear  the  slight,  wiry,  winnowing  sound 
of  their  wings  as  they  changed  their  roosts  from  time 
to  time,  and  their  gentle  and  tremulous  cooing.  They 
sojourned  with  us  during  the  noontide,  greater  travelers 
far  than  we.  You  may  frequently  discover  a  single  pair 
sitting  upon  the  lower  branches  of  the  white  pine  in  the 
depths  of  the  wood,  at  this  hour  of  the  day,  so  silent  and 
solitary,  and  with  such  a  hermitlike  appearance,  as  if 
they  had  never  strayed  beyond  its  skirts,  while  the  acorn 


236  A  WEEK 

which  was  gathered  in  the  forests  of  Maine  is  still  undi 
gested  in  their  crops.  We  obtained  one  of  these  hand 
some  birds,  which  lingered  too  long  upon  its  perch,  and 
plucked  and  broiled  it  here  with  some  other  game,  to  be 
carried  along  for  our  supper;  for,  beside  the  provisions 
which  we  carried  with  us,  we  depended  mainly  on  the 
river  and  forest  for  our  supply.  It  is  true,  it  did  not  seem 
to  be  putting  this  bird  to  its  right  use  to  pluck  off  its 
feathers,  and  extract  its  entrails,  and  broil  its  carcass  on 
the  coals;  but  we  heroically  persevered,  nevertheless, 
waiting  for  further  information.  The  same  regard  for 
Nature  which  excited  our  sympathy  for  her  creatures 
nerved  our  hands  to  carry  through  what  we  had  begun. 
For  we  would  be  honorable  to  the  party  we  deserted; 
we  would  fulfill  fate,  and  so  at  length,  perhaps,  detect 
the  secret  innocence  of  these  incessant  tragedies  which 
Heaven  allows. 

"Too  quick  resolves  do  resolution  wrong. 
What,  part  so  soon  to  be  divorced  so  long? 
Things  to  be  done  are  long  to  be  debated; 
Heaven  is  not  day'd,  Repentance  is  not  dated." 

We  are  double-edged  blades,  and  every  time  we  whet 
our  virtue  the  return  stroke  straps  our  vice.  Where  is  the 
skillful  swordsman  who  can  give  clean  wounds,  and  not 
rip  up  his  work  with  the  other  edge  ? 

Nature  herself  has  not  provided  the  most  graceful  end 
for  her  creatures.  What  becomes  of  all  these  birds  that 
people  the  air  and  forest  for  our  solacement  ?  The  spar 
rows  seem  always  chipper,  never  infirm.  We  do  not  see 
\  their  bodies  lie  about.  Yet  there  is  a  tragedy  at  the  end 
of  each  one  of  their  lives.  They  must  perish  miserably; 


TUESDAY  237 

not  one  of  them  is  translated.  True,  "not  a  sparrow 
falleth  to  the  ground  without  our  Heavenly  Father's 
knowledge,"  but  they  do  fall,  nevertheless. 

The  carcasses  of  some  poor  squirrels,  however,  the 
same  that  frisked  so  merrily  in  the  morning,  which  we 
had  skinned  and  emboweled  for  our  dinner,  we  aban 
doned  in  disgust,  with  tardy  humanity,  as  too  wretched 
a  resource  for  any  but  starving  men.  It  was  to  perpetuate 
the  practice  of  a  barbarous  era.  If  they  had  been  larger, 
our  crime  had  been  less.  Their  small  red  bodies,  little 
bundles  of  red  tissue,  mere  gobbets  of  venison,  would  not 
have  "fattened  fire."  With  a  sudden  impulse  we  threw 
them  away,  and  washed  our  hands,  and  boiled  some  rice 
for  our  dinner.  "  Behold  the  difference  between  the  one 
who  eateth  flesh,  and  him  to  whom  it  belonged !  The  first 
hath  a  momentary  enjoyment,  whilst  the  latter  is  de 
prived  of  existence!"  "Who  would  commit  so  great  a 
crime  against  a  poor  animal,  who  is  fed  only  by  the  herbs 
which  grow  wild  in  the  woods,  and  whose  belly  is  burnt 
up  with  hunger  ?  "  We  remembered  a  picture  of  man 
kind  in  the  hunter  age,  chasing  hares  down  the  moun 
tains;  O  me  miserable!  Yet  sheep  and  oxen  are  but 
larger  squirrels,  whose  hides  are  saved  and  meat  is 
salted,  whose  souls  perchance  are  not  so  large  in  pro 
portion  to  their  bodies. 

There  should  always  be  some  flowering  and  maturing 
of  the  fruits  of  nature  in  the  cooking  process.  Some 
simple  dishes  recommend  themselves  to  our  imagina 
tions  as  well  as  palates.  In  parched  corn,  for  instance, 
there  is  a  manifest  sympathy  between  the  bursting  seed 
and  the  more  perfect  developments  of  vegetable  life. 


238  A  WEEK 

It  is  a  perfect  flower  with  its  petals,  like  the  houstonia 
or  anemone.  On  my  warm  hearth  these  cerealian  blos 
soms  expanded;  here  is  the  bank  whereon  they  grew. 
Perhaps  some  such  visible  blessing  would  always  attend 
the  simple  and  wholesome  repast. 

Here  was  that  "pleasant  harbor  "  which  we  had  sighed 
for,  where  the  weary  voyageur  could  read  the  journal  of 
some  other  sailor,  whose  bark  had  plowed,  perchance, 
more  famous  and  classic  seas.  At  the  tables  of  the  gods, 
after  feasting  follow  music  and  song;  we  will  recline 
now  under  these  island  trees,  and  for  our  minstrel  call  on 

ANACREON 

"Nor  has  he  ceased  his  charming  song,  for  still  that  lyre, 
Though  he  is  dead,  sleeps  not  in  Hades."  1 

I  lately  met  with  an  old  volume  from  a  London  book 
shop,  containing  the  Greek  Minor  Poets,  and  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  read  once  more  only  the  words  Orpheus, 
Linus,  Musaeus,  —  those  faint  poetic  sounds  and  echoes 
of  a  name,  dying  away  on  the  ears  of  us  modern  men; 
and  those  hardly  more  substantial  sounds,  Mimnermus, 
Ibycus,  Alcseus,  Stesichorus,  Menander.  They  lived  not 
in  vain.  We  can  converse  with  these  bodiless  fames 
without  reserve  or  personality. 

I  know  of  no  studies  so  composing  as  those  of  the 
classical  scholar.  When  we  have  sat  down  to  them,  life 
seems  as  still  and  serene  as  if  it  were  very  far  off,  and  I 
believe  it  is  not  habitually  seen  from  any  common  plat 
form  so  truly  and  unexaggerated  as  in  the  light  of  litera 
ture.  In  serene  hours  we  contemplate  the  tour  of  the 

1  Simonides'  Epigram  on  Anacreon. 


TUESDAY  239 

Greek  and  Latin  authors  with  more  pleasure  than  the 
traveler  does  the  fairest  scenery  of  Greece  or  Italy.  Where 
shall  we  find  a  more  refined  scoiety?  That  highway 
down  from  Homer  and  Hesiod  to  Horace  and  Juvenal  is 
more  attractive  than  the  Appian.  Reading  the  classics 
or  conversing  with  those  old  Greeks  and  Latins  in  their 
surviving  works,  is  like  walking  amid  the  stars  and  con 
stellations,  a  high  and  by  way  serene  to  travel.  Indeed, 
the  true  scholar  will  be  not  a  little  of  an  astronomer  in 
his  habits.  Distracting  cares  will  not  be  allowed  toS 
obstruct  the  field  of  his  vision,  for  the  higher  regions  of 
literature,  like  astronomy,  are  above  storm  and  darkness. 

But  passing  by  these  rumors  of  bards,  let  us  pause 
for  a  moment  at  the  Teian  poet. 

There  is  something  strangely  modern  about  him.  He 
is  very  easily  turned  into  English.  Is  it  that  our  lyric 
poets  have  resounded  but  that  lyre,  which  would  sound 
only  light  subjects,  and  which  Simonides  tells  us  does 
not  sleep  in  Hades  ?  His  odes  are  like  gems  of  pure  ivory. 
They  possess  an  ethereal  and  evanescent  beauty  like 
summer  evenings,  o  xpy  <r*  voeiv  voov  av0«,  —  which  you 
must  perceive  with  the  flower  of  the  mind,  —  and  show 
how  slight  a  beauty  could  be  expressed.  You  have  to 
consider  them,  as  the  stars  of  lesser  magnitude,  with 
the  side  of  the  eye,  and  look  aside  from  them  to  be 
hold  them.  They  charm  us  by  their  serenity  and  free 
dom  from  exaggeration  and  passion,  and  by  a  certain 
flower-like  beauty,  which  does  not  propose  itself,  but 
must  be  approached  and  studied  like  a  natural  object. 
But  perhaps  their  chief  merit  consists  in  the  lightness 
and  yet  security  of  their  tread,  — 


240  A  WEEK 

"  The  young  and  tender  stalk 
Ne'er  bends  when  they  do  walk." 

True,  our  nerves  are  never  strung  by  them;  it  is  too 
constantly  the  sound  of  the  lyre,  and  never  the  note  of 
the  trumpet;  but  they  are  not  gross,  as  has  been  pre 
sumed,  but  always  elevated  above  the  sensual. 

These  are  some  of  the  best  that  have  come  down  to  us. 

ON   HIS  LYRE 

I  wish  to  sing  the  Atridse, 

And  Cadmus  I  wish  to  sing; 

But  my  lyre  sounds 

Only  love  with  its  chords. 

Lately  I  changed  the  strings 

And  all  the  lyre; 

And  I  began  to  sing  the  labors 

Of  Hercules;  but  my  lyre 

Resounded  loves. 

Farewell,  henceforth,  for  me, 

Heroes!  for  my  lyre 

Sings  only  loves. 

TO  A   SWALLOW 

Thou  indeed,  dear  swallow, 
Yearly  going  and  coming, 
In  summer  weavest  thy  nest, 
And  in  winter  go'st  disappearing 
Either  to  Nile  or  to  Memphis. 
But  Love  always  weaveth 
His  nest  in  my  heart.  .  .  . 

ON  A  SILVER   CUP 

Turning  the  silver, 
Vulcan,  make  for  me, 
Not  indeed  a  panoply, 
For  what  are  battles  to  me? 


TUESDAY  241 

But  a  hollow  cup, 

As  deep  as  thou  canst. 

And  make  for  me  in  it 

Neither  stars,  nor  wagons, 

Nor  sad  Orion; 

What  are  the  Pleiades  to  me  ? 

What  the  shining  Bootes  ? 

Make  vines  for  me, 

And  clusters  of  grapes  in  it, 

And  of  gold  Love  and  Bathyllus 

Treading  the  grapes 

With  the  fair  Lyseus. 

ON  HIMSELF 

Thou  sing'st  the  affairs  of  Thebes, 

And  he  the  battles  of  Troy, 

But  I  of  my  own  defeats. 

No  horse  have  wasted  me, 

Nor  foot,  nor  ships; 

But  a  new  and  different  host, 

From  eyes  smiting  me. 

TO  A  DOVE 

Lovely  dove, 

Whence,  whence  dost  thou  fly? 

Whence,  running  on  air, 

Dost  thou  waft  and  diffuse 

So  many  sweet  ointments? 

Who  art  ?    What  thy  errand  ?  — 

Anacreon  sent  me 

To  a  boy,  to  Bathyllus, 

Who  lately  is  ruler  and  tyrant  of  all. 

Cythere  has  sold  me 

For  one  little  song, 

And  I'm  doing  this  service 

For  Anacreon. 

And  now,  as  you  see, 

I  bear  letters  from  him. 


242  A  WEEK 

And  he  says  that  directly 

He  '11  make  me  free, 

But  though  he  release  me, 

His  slave  will  I  tarry  with  him. 

For  why  should  I  fly 

Over  mountains  and  fields, 

And  perch  upon  trees, 

Eating  some  wild  thing? 

Now  indeed  I  eat  bread, 

Plucking  it  from  the  hands 

Of  Anacreon  himself; 

And  he  gives  me  to  drink 

The  wine  which  he  tastes, 

And  drinking,  I  dance, 

And  shadow  my  master's 

Face  with  my  wings; 

And,  going  to  rest, 

On  the  lyre  itself  I  sleep. 

That  is  all;  get  thee  gone. 

Thou  hast  made  me  more  talkative, 

Man,  than  a  crow. 

ON  LOVE 

Love  walking  swiftly, 

With  hyacinthine  staff, 

Bade  me  to  take  a  run  with  him; 

And  hastening  through  swift  torrents, 

And  woody  places,  and  over  precipices, 

A  water-snake  stung  me. 

And  my  heart  leaped  up  to 

My  mouth,  and  I  should  have  fainted; 

But  Love,  fanning  my  brows 

With  his  soft  wings,  said, 

Surely,  thou  art  not  able  to  love. 

ON  WOMEN 

Nature  has  given  horns 

To  bulls,  and  hoofs  to  horses, 


TUESDAY  243 

Swiftness  to  hares, 

To  lions  yawning  teeth, 

To  fishes  swimming, 

To  birds  flight, 

To  men  wisdom. 

For  woman  she  had  nothing  beside; 

What  then  does  she  give  ?    Beauty,  — 

Instead  of  all  shields, 

Instead  of  all  spears; 

And  she  conquers  even  iron 

And  fire,  who  is  beautiful. 

ON  LOVERS 

Horses  have  the  mark 

Of  fire  on  their  sides, 

And  some  have  distinguished 

The  Parthian  men  by  their  crests; 

So  I,  seeing  lovers, 

Know  them  at  once, 

For  they  have  a  certain  slight 

Brand  on  then*  hearts. 

TO   A  SWALLOW 

What  dost  thou  wish  me  to  do  to  thee,  — 

What,  thou  loquacious  swallow  ? 

Dost  thou  wish  me  taking  thee 

Thy  light  pinions  to  clip  ? 

Or  rather  to  pluck  out 

Thy  tongue  from  within. 

As  that  Tereus  did  ? 

Why  with  thy  notes  in  the  dawn 

Hast  thou  plundered  Bathyllus 

From  my  beautiful  dreams  ? 

TO   A   COLT 

Thracian  colt,  why  at  me 
Looking  aslant  with  thy  eyes, 
Dost  thou  cruelly  flee, 
And  think  that  I  know  nothing  wise? 


244  A  WEEK 

Know  I  could  well 
Put  the  bridle  on  thee, 
And  holding  the  reins,  turn 
Round  the  bounds  of  the  course. 
But  now  thou  browsest  the  meads, 
And  gamboling  lightly  dost  play, 
v  For  thou  hast  no  skillful  horseman 

Mounted  upon  thy  back. 

CUPID  WOUNDED 

Love  once  among  roses 

Saw  not 

A  sleeping  bee,  but  was  stung; 

And  being  wounded  in  the  finger 

Of  his  hand,  cried  for  pain. 

Running  as  well  as  flying 

To  the  beautiful  Venus, 

I  am  killed,  mother,  said  he, 

I  am  killed,  and  I  die. 

A  little  serpent  has  stung  me, 

Winged,  which  they  call 

A  bee,  —  the  husbandmen. 

And  she  said,  If  the  sting 

Of  a  bee  afflicts  you, 

How,  think  you,  are  they  afflicted, 

Love,  whom  you  smite? 

Late  in  the  afternoon,  for  we  had  lingered  long  on  the 
island,  we  raised  our  sail  for  the  first  time,  and  for  a  short 
hour  the  southwest  wind  was  our  ally;  but  it  did  not 
please  Heaven  to  abet  us  long.  With  one  sail  raised  we 
swept  slowly  up  the  eastern  side  of  the  stream,  steering 
clear  of  the  rocks,  while,  from  the  top  of  a  hill  which 
formed  the  opposite  bank,  some  lumberers  were  rolling 
down  timber  to  be  rafted  down  the  stream.  We  could  see 
their  axes  and  levers  gleaming  in  the  sun,  and  the  logs 


TUESDAY  245 

came  down  with  a  dust  and  a  rumbling  sound,  which 
was  reverberated  through  the  woods  beyond  us  on  our 
side,  like  the  roar  of  artillery.  But  Zephyr  soon  took  us 
out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  this  commerce.  Having 
passed  Read's  Ferry,  and  another  island  called  McGaw's 
Island,  we  reached  some  rapids  called  Moore's  Falls, 
and  entered  on  "  that  section  of  the  river,  nine  miles  in 
extent,  converted,  by  law,  into  the  Union  Canal,  com 
prehending  in  that  space  six  distinct  falls;  at  each  of 
which,  and  at  several  intermediate  places,  work  has  been 
done."  After  passing  Moore's  Falls  by  means  of  locks, 
we  again  had  recourse  to  our  oars,  and  went  merrily  on 
our  way,  driving  the  small  sandpiper  from  rock  to  rock 
before  us,  and  sometimes  rowing  near  enough  to  a  cot 
tage  on  the  bank,  though  they  were  few  and  far  between, 
to  see  the  sunflowers,  and  the  seed-vessels  of  the  poppy, 
like  small  goblets  filled  with  the  water  of  Lethe,  before 
the  door,  but  without  disturbing  the  sluggish  household 
behind.  Thus  we  held  on,  sailing  or  dipping  our  way 
along  with  the  paddle  up  this  broad  river,  smooth  and 
placid,  flowing  over  concealed  rocks,  where  we  could  see 
the  pickerel  lying  low  in  the  transparent  water,  eager  to 
double  some  distant  cape,  to  make  some  great  bend  as 
in  the  life  of  man,  and  see  what  new  perspective  would 
open ;  looking  far  into  a  new  country,  broad  and  serene, 
the  cottages  of  settlers  seen  afar  for  the  first  time,  yet 
with  the  moss  of  a  century  on  their  roofs,  and  the  third  or 
fourth  generation  in  their  shadows.  Strange  was  it  to 
consider  how  the  sun  and  the  summer,  the  buds  of  spring 
and  the  seared  leaves  of  autumn,  were  related  to  these 
cabins  along  the  shore;  how  all  the  rays  which  paint  the 


246  A  WEEK 

landscape  radiate  from  them,  and  the  flight  of  the  crow 
and  the  gyrations  of  the  hawk  have  reference  to  their 
roofs.  Still  the  ever  rich  and  fertile  shores  accompa 
nied  us,  fringed  with  vines  and  alive  with  small  birds 
and  frisking  squirrels,  the  edge  of  some  farmer's  field 
or  widow's  wood-lot,  or  wilder,  perchance,  where  the 
muskrat,  the  little  medicine  of  the  river,  drags  itself 
along  stealthily  over  the  alder  leaves  and  mussel  shells, 
and  man  and  the  memory  of  man  are  banished  far. 

At  length  the  unwearied,  never-sinking  shore,  still 
holding  on'  without  break,  with  its  cool  copses  and  serene 
pasture-grounds,  tempted  us  to  disembark;  and  we  ad 
venturously  landed  on  this  remote  coast,  to  survey  it, 
without  the  knowledge  of  any  human  inhabitant  prob 
ably  to  this  day.  But  we  still  remember  the  gnarled  and 
hospitable  oaks  which  grew  even  there  for  our  enter 
tainment,  and  were  no  strangers  to  us,  the  lonely  horse 
in  his  pasture,  and  the  patient  cows,  whose  path  to  the 
river,  so  judiciously  chosen  to  overcome  the  difficulties 
of  the  way,  we  followed,  and  disturbed  their  ruminations 
in  the  shade;  and,  above  all,  the  cool,  free  aspect  of  the 
wild  apple  trees,  generously  proffering  their  fruit  to  us, 
though  still  green  and  crude,  —  the  hard,  round,  glossy 
fruit,  which,  if  not  ripe,  still  was  not  poison,  but  New 
English  too,  brought  hither,  its  ancestors,  by  ours  once. 
These  gentler  trees  imparted  a  half -civilized  and  twilight 
aspect  to  the  otherwise  barbarian  land.  Still  farther  on 
we  scrambled  up  the  rocky  channel  of  a  brook,  which 
had  long  served  nature  for  a  sluice  there,  leaping  like  it 
from  rock  to  rock,  through  tangled  woods,  at  the  bottom 
of  a  ravine,  which  grew  darker  and  darker,  and  more 


TUESDAY  247 

and  more  hoarse  the  murmurs  of  the  stream,  until  we 
reached  the  ruins  of  a  mill,  where  now  the  ivy  grew,  and 
the  trout  glanced  through  the  crumbling  flume;  and 
there  we  imagined  what  had  been  the  dreams  -and  specu 
lations  of  some  early  settler.  But  the  waning  day  com 
pelled  us  to  embark  once  more,  and  redeem  this  wasted 
time  with  long  and  vigorous  sweeps  over  the  rippling 
stream. 

It  was  still  wild  and  solitary,  except  that  at  intervals 
of  a  mile  or  two  the  roof  of  a  cottage  might  be  seen  over 
the  bank.  This  region,  as  we  read,  was  once  famous  for 
the  manufacture  of  straw  bonnets  of  the  Leghorn  kind, 
of  which  it  claims  the  invention  in  these  parts;  and 
occasionally  some  industrious  damsel  tripped  down 
to  the  water's  edge,  to  put  her  straw  a-soak,  as  it  ap 
peared,  and  stood  awhile  to  watch  the  retreating  voy- 
ageurs,  and  catch  the  fragment  of  a  boat-song  which  we 
had  made,  wafted  over  the  water. 

Thus,  perchance,  the  Indian  hunter, 

Many  a  lagging  year  agone, 
Gliding  o'er  thy  rippling  waters, 

Lowly  hummed  a  natural  song. 

Now  the  sun's  behind  the  willows, 
Now  he  gleams  along  the  waves  ; 

Faintly  o'er  the  wearied  billows 
Come  the  spirits  of  the  braves. 

Just  before  sundown  we  reached  some  more  falls  in 
the  town  of  Bedford,  where  some  stone-masons  were 
employed  repairing  the  locks  in  a  solitary  part  of  the 
river.  They  were  interested  in  our  adventure,  especially 
one  young  man  of  our  own  age,  who  inquired  at  first  if 


248  A  WEEK 

we  were  bound  up  to  "  'Skeag ; "  and  when  he  had  heard 
our  story,  and  examined  our  outfit,  asked  us  other  ques 
tions,  but  temperately  still,  and  always  turning  to  his 
work  again,  though  as  if  it  were  become  his  duty.  It  was 
plain  that  he  would  like  to  go  with  us,  and,  as  he  looked 
up  the  river,  many  a  distant  cape  and  wooded  shore  were 
reflected  in  his  eye,  as  well  as  in  his  thoughts.  When  we 
were  ready  he  left  his  work,  and  helped  us  through  the 
locks  with  a  sort  of  quiet  enthusiasm,  telling  us  that  we 
were  at  Coos  Falls,  and  we  could  still  distinguish  the 
strokes  of  his  chisel  for  many  sweeps  after  we  had  left 
him. 

We  wished  to  camp  this  night  on  a  large  rock  in  the 
middle  of  the  stream,  just  above  these  falls,  but  the  want 
of  fuel,  and  the  difficulty  of  fixing  our  tent  firmly,  pre 
vented  us;  so  we  made  our  bed  on  the  mainland  oppo 
site,  on  the  west  bank,  in  the  town  of  Bedford,  in  a 
retired  place,  as  we  supposed,  there  being  no  house  in 
sight. 


WEDNESDAY 

Man  is  man's  foe  and  destiny.  —  COTTON. 
this  morning,  as  we  were  rolling  up  our  buffa 
loes  and  loading  our  boat  amid  the  dew,  while  our  embers 
were  still  smoking,  the  masons  who  worked  at  the  locks, 
and  whom  we  had  seen  crossing  the  river  in  their  boat 
the  evening  before  while  we  were  examining  the  rock, 
came  upon  us  as  they  were  going  to  their  work,  and  we 
found  that  we  had  pitched  our  tent  directly  in  the  path 
to  their  boat.  This  was  the  only  time  that  we  were 
observed  on  our  camping-ground.  Thus,  far  from  the 
beaten  highways  and  the  dust  and  din  of  travel,  we 
beheld  the  country  privately,  yet  freely,  and  at  our  lei 
sure.  Other  roads  do  some  violence  to  Nature,  and 
bring  the  traveler  to  stare  at  her,  but  the  river  steals 
into  the  scenery  it  traverses  without  intrusion,  silently 
creating  and  adorning  it,  and  is  as  free  to  come  and  go 
as  the  zephyr. 

As  we  shoved  away  from  this  rocky  coast,  before  sun 
rise,  the  smaller  bittern,  the  genius  of  the  shore,  was 
moping  along  its  edge,  or  stood  probing  the  mud  for  its 
food,  with  ever  an  eye  on  us,  though  so  demurely  at 
work,  or  else  he  ran  along  over  the  wet  stones  like  a 
wrecker  in  his  storm-coat,  looking  out  for  wrecks  of 
snails  and  cockles.  Now  away  he  goes,  with  a  limping 
flight,  uncertain  where  he  will  alight,  until  a  rod  of  clear 
sand  amid  the  alders  invites  his  feet ;  and  now  our  steady 
approach  compels  him  to  seek  a  new  retreat.  It  is  a  bird 


250  A  WEEK 

of  the  oldest  Thalesian  school,  and  no  doubt  believes 
in  the  priority  of  water  to  the  other  elements ;  the  relic 
of  a  twilight  antediluvian  age  which  yet  inhabits  these 
bright  American  rivers  with  us  Yankees.  There  is  some 
thing  venerable  in  this  melancholy  and  contemplative 
race  of  birds,  which  may  have  trodden  the  earth  while  it 
was  yet  in  a  slimy  and  imperfect  state.  Perchance  their 
tracks,  too,  are  still  visible  on  the  stones.  It  still  lingers 
into  our  glaring  summers,  bravely  supporting  its  fate 
without  sympathy  from  man,  as  if  it  looked  forward  to 
some  second  advent  of  which  he  has  no  assurance.  One 
wonders  if,  by  its  patient  study  by  rocks  and  sandy  capes, 
it  has  wrested  the  whole  of  her  secret  from  Nature  yet. 
What  a  rich  experience  it  must  have  gained,  standing  on 
one  leg  and  looking  out  from  its  dull  eye  so  long  on  sun 
shine  and  rain,  moon  and  stars!  What  could  it  tell  of 
stagnant  pools  and  reeds  and  dank  night-fogs !  It  would 
be  worth  the  while  to  look  closely  into  the  eye  which  has 
been  open  and  seeing  at  such  hours,  and  in  such  solitudes 
its  dull,  yellowish,  greenish  eye.  Methinks  my  own  soul 
must  be  a  bright  invisible  green.  I  have  seen  these  birds 
stand  by  the  half  dozen  together  in  the  shallower  water 
along  the  shore,  with  their  bills  thrust  into  the  mud  at 
the  bottom,  probing  for  food,  the  whole  head  being  con 
cealed,  while  the  neck  and  body  formed  an  arch  above 
the  water. 

Cohass  Brook,  the  outlet  of  Massabesic  Pond,  — 
which  last  is  five  or  six  miles  distant,  and  contains  fifteen 
hundred  acres,  being  the  largest  body  of  fresh  water  in 
Rockingham  County,  —  comes  in  near  here  from  the 
east.  Rowing  between  Manchester  and  Bedford,  we 


The  Merrimac  at  GojfjTs  Falls 


. 


WEDNESDAY  251 

passed,  at  an  early  hour,  a  ferry  and  some  falls,  called 
GofFs  Falls,  the  Indian  Cohasset,  where  there  is  a  small 
village,  and  a  handsome  green  islet  in  the  middle  of 
the  stream.  From  Bedford  and  Merrimack  have  been 
boated  the  bricks  of  which  Lowell  is  made.  About 
twenty  years  before,  as  they  told  us,  one  Moore,  of 
Bedford,  having  clay  on  his  farm,  contracted  to  furnish 
eight  millions  of  bricks  to  the  founders  of  that  city  within 
two  years.  He  fulfilled  his  contract  in  one  year,  and  since 
then  bricks  have  been  the  principal  export  from  these 
towns.  The  farmers  found  thus  a  market  for  their  wood, 
and  when  they  had  brought  a  load  to  the  kilns,  they 
could  cart  a  load  of  bricks  to  the  shore,  and  so  make  a 
profitable  day's  work  of  it.  Thus  all  parties  were  bene 
fited.  It  was  worth  the  while  to  see  the  place  where 
Lowell  was  "dug  out."  So,  likewise,  Manchester  is 
being  built  of  bricks  made  still  higher  up  the  river  at 
Hooksett. 

There  might  be  seen  here  on  the  bank  of  the  Merri 
mack,  near  GoflF's  Falls,  in  what  is  now  the  town  of  Bed 
ford,  famous  "for  hops  and  for  its  fine  domestic  manu 
factures,"  some  graves  of  the  aborigines.  The  land  still 
bears  this  scar  here,  and  time  is  slowly  crumbling  the 
bones  of  a  race.  Yet,  without  fail,  every  spring,  since 
they  first  fished  and  hunted  here,  the  brown  thrasher 
has  heralded  the  morning  from  a  birch  or  alder  spray, 
and  the  undying  race  of  reed-birds  still  rustles  through 
the  withering  grass.  But  these  bones  rustle  not.  These 
mouldering  elements  are  slowly  preparing  for  another 
metamorphosis,  to  serve  new  masters,  and  what  was  the 
Indian's  will  ere  long  be  the  white  man's  sinew. 


252  A  WEEK 

We  learned  that  Bedford  was  not  so  famous  for  hops 
as  formerly,  since  the  price  is  fluctuating,  and  poles  are 
now  scarce.  Yet  if  the  traveler  goes  back  a  few  miles 
from  the  river,  the  hop  kilns  will  still  excite  his  curiosity. 

There  were  few  incidents  in  our  voyage  this  forenoon, 
though  the  river  was  now  more  rocky  and  the  falls  more 
frequent  than  before.  It  was  a  pleasant  change,  after 
rowing  incessantly  for  many  hours,  to  lock  ourselves 
through  in  some  retired  place,  —  for  commonly  there 
was  no  lock-man  at  hand,  —  one  sitting  in  the  boat, 
while  the  other,  sometimes  with  no  little  labor  and  heave- 
yo-ing,  opened  and  shut  the  gates,  waiting  patiently  to 
see  the  locks  fill.  We  did  not  once  use  the  wheels  which 
we  had  provided.  Taking  advantage  of  the  eddy,  we 
were  sometimes  floated  up  to  the  locks  almost  in  the  face 
of  the  falls ;  and,  by  the  same  cause,  any  floating  timber 
was  carried  round  in  a  circle  and  repeatedly  drawn  into 
the  rapids  before  it  finally  went  down  the  stream.  These 
old  gray  structures,  with  their  quiet  arms  stretched  over 
the  river  in  the  sun,  appeared  like  natural  objects  in  the 
scenery,  and  the  kingfisher  and  sandpiper  alighted  on 
them  as  readily  as  on  stakes  or  rocks. 

We  rowed  leisurely  up  the  stream  for  several  hours, 
until  the  sun  had  got  high  in  the  sky,  our  thoughts 
monotonously  beating  time  to  our  oars.  For  outward 
variety  there  was  only  the  river  and  the  receding  shores, 
a  vista  continually  opening  behind  and  closing  before  us, 
as  we  sat  with  our  backs  upstream;  and,  for  inward, 
such  thoughts  as  the  muses  grudgingly  lent  us.  We  were 
always  passing  some  low,  inviting  shore,  or  some  over 
hanging  bank,  on  which,  however,  we  never  landed. 


WEDNESDAY  253 

Such  near  aspects  had  we 
Of  our  life's  scenery. 

It  might  be  seen  by  what  tenure  men  held  the  earth. 
The  smallest  stream  is  mediterranean  sea,  a  smaller 
ocean  creek  within  the  land,  where  men  may  steer  by 
their  farm  bounds  and  cottage  lights.  For  my  own  part, 
but  for  the  geographers,  I  should  hardly  have  known 
how  large  a  portion  of  our  globe  is  water,  my  life  has 
chiefly  passed  within  so  deep  a  cove.  Yet  I  have  some 
times  ventured  as  far  as  to  the  mouth  of  my  Snug  Harbor. 
From  an  old  ruined  fort  on  Staten  Island,  I  have  loved 
to  watch  all  day  some  vessel  whose  name  I  had  read  in 
the  morning  through  the  telegraph  glass,  when  she  first 
came  upon  the  coast,  and  her  hull  heaved  up  and  glis 
tened  in  the  sun,  from  the  moment  when  the  pilot  and 
most  adventurous  news-boats  met  her,  past  the  Hook, 
and  up  the  narrow  channel  of  the  wide  bay,  till  she  was 
boarded  by  the  health  officer,  and  took  her  station  at 
quarantine,  or  held  on  her  unquestioned  course  to  the 
wharves  of  New  York.  It  was  interesting,  too,  to  watch 
the  less  adventurous  newsman,  who  made  his  assault  as 
the  vessel  swept  through  the  Narrows,  defying  plague 
and  quarantine  law,  and,  fastening  his  little  cockboat 
to  her  huge  side,  clambered  up  and  disappeared  in  the 
cabin.  And  then  I  could  imagine  what  momentous  news 
was  being  imparted  by  the  captain,  which  no  American 
ear  had  ever  heard,  that  Asia,  Africa,  Europe  —  were  all 
sunk;  for  which  at  length  he  pays  the  price,  and  is  seen 
descending  the  ship's  side  with  his  bundle  of  newspa 
pers,  but  not  where  he  first  got  up,  for  these  arrivers  do 
not  stand  still  to  gossip ;  and  he  hastes  away  with  steady 


254  A  WEEK 

sweeps  to  dispose  of  his  wares  to  the  highest  bidder,  and 
we  shall  ere  long  read  something  startling,  —  "By  the 

latest  arrival,"  — "  by  the  good  ship ."  On  Sunday  I 

beheld,  from  some  interior  hill,  the  long  procession  of 
vessels  getting  to  sea,  reaching  from  the  city  wharves 
through  the  Narrows,  and  past  the  Hook,  quite  to  the 
ocean  stream,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  with  stately 
march  and  silken  sails,  all  counting  on  lucky  voyages, 
but  each  time  some  of  the  number,  no  doubt,  destined 
to  go  to  Davy's  locker,  and  never  come  on  this  coast 
again.  And,  again,  in  the  evening  of  a  pleasant  day,  it 
was  my  amusement  to  count  the  sails  in  sight.  But  as 
the  setting  sun  continually  brought  more  and  more  to 
light,  still  farther  in  the  horizon,  the  last  count  always 
had  the  advantage,  till,  by  the  time  the  last  rays  streamed 
over  the  sea,  I  had  doubled  and  trebled  my  first  number; 
though  I  could  no  longer  class  them  all  under  the  several 
heads  of  ships,  barks,  brigs,  schooners,  and  sloops,  but 
most  were  faint  generic  vessels  only.  And  then  the  tem 
perate  twilight,  perchance,  revealed  the  floating  home  of 
some  sailor  whose  thoughts  were  already  alienated  from 
this  American  coast,  and  directed  towards  the  Europe  of 
our  dreams.  I  have  stood  upon  the  same  hilltop,  when 
a  thunder-shower,  rolling  down  from  the  Catskills  and 
Highlands,  passed  over  the  island,  deluging  the  land; 
and,  when  it  had  suddenly  left  us  in  sunshine,  have  seen 
it  overtake  successively,  with  its  huge  shadow  and  dark, 
descending  wall  of  rain,  the  vessels  in  the  bay.  Their 
bright  sails  were  suddenly  drooping  and  dark,  like  the 
sides  of  barns,  and  they  seemed  to  shrink  before  the 
storm;  while  still  far  beyond  them  on  the  sea,  through 


WEDNESDAY  255 

this  dark  veil,  gleamed  the  sunny  sails  of  those  vessels 
which  the  storm  had  not  yet  reached.  And  at  midnight, 
when  all  around  and  overhead  was  darkness,  I  have  seen 
a  field  of  trembling,  silvery  light  far  out  on  the  sea,  the 
reflection  of  the  moonlight  from  the  ocean,  as  if  beyond 
the  precincts  of  our  night,  where  the  moon  traversed  a 
cloudless  heaven,  —  and  sometimes  a  dark  speck  in  its 
midst,  where  some  fortunate  vessel  was  pursuing  its 
happy  voyage  by  night. 

But  to  us  river  sailors  the  sun  never  rose  out  of  ocean 
waves,  but  from  some  green  coppice,  and  went  down 
behind  some  dark  mountain  line.  We,  too,  were  but 
dwellers  on  the  shore,  like  the  bittern  of  the  morning; 
and  our  pursuit,  the  wrecks  of  snails  and  cockles. 
Nevertheless,  we  were  contented  to  know  the  better  one 
fair  particular  shore. 

My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the  beach, 
As  near  the  ocean's  edge  as  I  can  go; 

My  tardy  steps  its  waves  sometimes  o'erreach, 
Sometimes  I  stay  to  let  them  overflow. 

My  sole  employment  't  is,  and  scrupulous  care, 
To  place  my  gains  beyond  the  reach  of  tides, 

Each  smoother  pebble,  and  each  shell  more  rare, 
Which  ocean  kindly  to  my  hand  confides. 

I  have  but  few  companions  on  the  shore, 
They  scorn  the  strand  who  sail  upon  the  sea, 

Yet  oft  I  think  the  ocean  they  've  sailed  o'er 
Is  deeper  known  upon  the  strand  to  me. 

The  middle  sea  contains  no  crimson  dulse, 
Its  deeper  waves  cast  up  no  pearls  to  view, 

Along  the  shore  my  hand  is  on  its  pulse, 
And  I  converse  with  many  a  shipwrecked  crew. 


256  A  WEEK 

The  small  houses  which  were  scattered  along  the  river 
at  intervals  of  a  mile  or  more  were  commonly  out  of 
sight  to  us,  but  sometimes,  when  we  rowed  near  the 
shore,  we  heard  the  peevish  note  of  a  hen,  or  some  slight 
domestic  sound,  which  betrayed  them.  The  lock-men's 
houses  were  particularly  well  placed,  retired,  and  high, 
always  at  falls  or  rapids,  and  commanding  the  pleasant- 
est  reaches  of  the  river,  —  for  it  is  generally  wider  and 
more  lake-like  just  above  a  fall,  —  and  there  they  wait 
for  boats.  These  humble  dwellings,  homely  and  sincere, 
in  which  a  hearth  was  still  the  essential  part,  were  more 
pleasing  to  our  eyes  than  palaces  or  castles  would  have 
been.  In  the  noon  of  these  days,  as  we  have  said,  we 
occasionally  climbed  the  banks  and  approached  these 
houses,  to  get  a  glass  of  water  and  make  acquaintance 
with  their  inhabitants.  High  in  the  leafy  bank,  sur 
rounded  commonly  by  a  small  patch  of  corn  and  beans, 
squashes  and  melons,  with  sometimes  a  graceful  hop- 
yard  on  one  side,  and  some  running  vine  over  the  win 
dows,  they  appeared  like  beehives  set  to  gather  honey 
for  a  summer.  I  have  not  read  of  any  Arcadian  life 
which  surpasses  the  actual  luxury  and  serenity  of  these 
New  England  dwellings.  For  the  outward  gilding,  at 
least,  the  age  is  golden  enough.  As  you  approach  the 
sunny  doorway,  awakening  the  echoes  by  your  steps, 
still  no  sound  from  these  barracks  of  repose,  and  you 
fear  that  the  gentlest  knock  may  seem  rude  to  the 
Oriental  dreamers.  The  door  is  opened,  perchance,  by 
some  Yankee-Hindoo  woman,  whose  small-voiced  but 
sincere  hospitality,  out  of  the  bottomless  depths  of  a 
quiet  nature,  has  traveled  quite  round  to  the  opposite 


WEDNESDAY  257 

side,  and  fears  only  to  obtrude  its  kindness.  You  step 
over  the  white-scoured  floor  to  the  bright  "dresser" 
lightly,  as  if  afraid  to  disturb  the  devotions  of  the  house 
hold,  —  for  Oriental  dynasties  appear  to  have  passed 
away  since  the  dinner-table  was  last  spread  here,  —  and 
thence  to  the  frequented  curb,  where  you  see  your  long- 
forgotten,  unshaven  face  at  the  bottom,  in  juxtaposition 
with  new-made  butter  and  the  trout  in  the  well.  "Per 
haps  you  would  like  some  molasses  and  ginger,"  sug 
gests  the  faint  noon  voice.  Sometimes  there  sits  the 
brother  who  follows  the  sea,  their  representative  man; 
who  knows  only  how  far  it  is  to  the  nearest  port,  no 
more  distances,  all  the  rest  is  sea  and  distant  capes,  — 
patting  the  dog,  or  dandling  the  kitten  in  arms  that  were 
stretched  by  the  cable  and  the  oar,  pulling  against 
Boreas  or  the  trade-winds.  He  looks  up  at  the  stranger, 
half  pleased,  half  astonished,  with  a  mariner's  eye,  as  if 
he  were  a  dolphin  within  cast.  If  men  will  believe  it, 
sua  si  bona  norint,  there  are  no  more  quiet  Tempes,  nor 
more  poetic  and  Arcadian  lives,  than  may  be  lived  in 
these  New  England  dwellings.  We  thought  that  the 
employment  of  their  inhabitants  by  day  would  be  to 
tend  the  flowers  and  herds,  and  at  night,  like  the  shep 
herds  of  old,  to  cluster  and  give  names  to  the  stars  from 
the  river  banks. 

We  passed  a  large  and  densely  wooded  island  this 
forenoon,  between  Short's  and  Griffith's  Falls,  the  fairest 
which  we  had  met  with,  with  a  handsome  grove  of  elms 
at  its  head.  If  it  had  been  evening,  we  should  have  been 
glad  to  camp  there.  Not  long  after,  one  or  two  more 
were  passed.  The  boatmen  told  us  that  the  current  had 


258  A  WEEK 

recently  made  important  changes  here.  An  island  always 
pleases  my  imagination,  even  the  smallest,  as  a  small  con 
tinent  and  integral  portion  of  the  globe.  I  have  a  fancy 
for  building  my  hut  on  one.  Even  a  bare,  grassy  isle, 
which  I  can  see  entirely  over  at  a  glance,  has  some 
undefined  and  mysterious  charm  for  me.  There  is 
commonly  such  a  one  at  the  junction  of  two  rivers, 
whose  currents  bring  down  and  deposit  their  respective 
sands  in  the  eddy  at  their  confluence,  as  it  were  the 
womb  of  a  continent.  By  what  a  delicate  and  far- 
stretched  contribution  every  island  is  made!  What  an 
enterprise  of  Nature  thus  to  lay  the  foundations  of  and 
to  build  up  the  future  continent,  of  golden  and  silver 
sands  and  the  ruins  of  forests,  with  ant-like  industry. 
Pindar  gives  the  following  account  of  the  origin  of  Thera, 
whence,  in  after  times,  Libyan  Gyrene  was  settled  by 
Battus.  Triton,  in  the  form  of  Eurypylus,  presents  a 
clod  to  Euphemus,  one  of  the  Argonauts,  as  they  are 
about  to  return  home. 

"He  knew  of  our  haste, 
And  immediately  seizing  a  clod 
With  his  right  hand,  strove  to  give  it 
As  a  chance  stranger's  gift. 

Nor  did  the  hero  disregard  him,  but  leaping  on  the  shore, 
Stretching  hand  to  hand, 
Received  the  mystic  clod. 
But  I  hear  it  sinking  from  the  deck, 
Go  with  the  sea  brine 
At  evening,  accompanying  the  watery  sea. 
Often  indeed  I  urged  the  careless 
Menials  to  guard  it,  but  their  minds  forgot. 
And  now  in  this  island  the  imperishable  seed  of  spacious  Libya 
Is  spilled  before  its  hour." 


WEDNESDAY  259 

It  is  a  beautiful  fable,  also  related  by  Pindar,  how 
Helius,  or  the  Sun,  looked  down  into  the  sea  one  day,  — 
when  perchance  his  rays  were  first  reflected  from  some 
increasing,  glittering  sand-bar,  —  and  saw  the  fair  and 
fruitful  island  of  Rhodes 

"springing  up  from  the  bottom, 
Capable  of  feeding  many  men,  and  suitable  for  flocks;" 

and  at  the  nod  of  Zeus,  — 

"The  island  sprang  from  the  watery 
Sea ;  and  the  genial  Father  of  penetrating  beams, 
Ruler  of  fire-breathing  horses,  has  it." 

The  shifting  islands!  who  would  not  be  willing  that 
his  house  should  be  undermined  by  such  a  foe!  The 
inhabitant  of  an  island  can  tell  what  currents  formed 
the  land  which  he  cultivates;  and  his  earth  is  still 
being  created  or  destroyed.  There  before  his  door, 
perchance,  still  empties  the  stream  which  brought  down 
the  material  of  his  farm  ages  before,  and  is  still  bring 
ing  it  down  or  washing  it  away,  —  the  graceful,  gentle 
robber! 

Not  long  after  this  we  saw  the  Piscataquoag,  or 
Sparkling  Water,  emptying  in  on  our  left,  and  heard  the 
Falls  of  Amoskeag  above.  Large  quantities  of  lumber, 
as  we  read  in  the  Gazetteer,  were  still  annually  floated 
down  the  Piscataquoag  to  the  Merrimack,  and  there  are 
many  fine  mill  privileges  on  it.  Just  above  the  mouth  of 
this  river  we  passed  the  artificial  falls  where  the  canals 
of  the  Manchester  Manufacturing  Company  discharge 
themselves  into  the  Merrimack.  They  are  striking 
enough  to  have  a  name,  and,  with  the  scenery  of  a  Bash- 


260  A  WEEK 

pish,  would  be  visited  from  far  and  near.  The  water 
falls  thirty  or  forty  feet  over  seven  or  eight  steep  and 
narrow  terraces  of  stone,  probably  to  break  its  force, 
and  is  converted  into  one  mass  of  foam.  This  canal 
water  did  not  seem  to  be  the  worse  for  the  wear,  but 
foamed  and  fumed  as  purely,  and  boomed  as  savagely 
and  impressively,  as  a  mountain  torrent,  and,  though 
it  came  from  under  a  factory,  we  saw  a  rainbow  here. 
These  are  now  the  Amoskeag  Falls,  removed  a  mile 
down-stream.  But  we  did  not  tarry  to  examine  them 
minutely,  making  haste  to  get  past  the  village  here  col 
lected,  and  out  of  hearing  of  the  hammer  which  was 
laying  the  foundation  of  another  Lowell  on  the  banks. 
At  the  time  of  our  voyage  Manchester  was  a  village  of 
about  two  thousand  inhabitants,  where  we  landed  for  a 
moment  to  get  some  cool  water,  and  where  an  inhabitant 
told  us  that  he  was  accustomed  to  go  across  the  river  into 
Goffstown  for  his  water.  But  now,  as  I  have  been  told, 
and  indeed  have  witnessed,  it  contains  fourteen  thou 
sand  inhabitants.  From  a  hill  on  the  road  between 
Goffstown  and  Hooksett,  four  miles  distant,  I  have  seen 
a  thunder-shower  pass  over,  and  the  sun  break  out  and 
shine  on  a  city  there,  where  I  had  landed  nine  years 
before  in  the  fields;  and  there  was  waving  the  flag  of  its 
Museum,  where  "  the  only  perfect  skeleton  of  a  Green 
land  or  river  whale  in  the  United  States  "  was  to  be  seen, 
and  I  also  read  in  its  directory  of  a  "Manchester 
Athenaeum  and  Gallery  of  the  Fine  Arts." 

According  to  the  Gazetteer,  the  descent  of  Amoskeag 
Falls,  which  are  the  most  considerable  in  the  Merri- 
mack,  is  fifty-four  feet  in  half  a  mile.  We  locked  our- 


WEDNESDAY  261 

selves  through  here  with  much  ado,  surmounting  the 
successive  watery  steps  of  this  river's  staircase  in  the 
midst  of  a  crowd  of  villagers,  jumping  into  the  canal  to 
their  amusement,  to  save  our  boat  from  upsetting,  and 
consuming  much  river  water  in  our  service.  Amoskeag, 
or  Namaskeak,  is  said  to  mean  "great  fishing-place." 
It  was  hereabouts  that  the  Sachem  Wannalancet  resided. 
Tradition  says  that  his  tribe,  when  at  war  with  the 
Mohawks,  concealed  their  provisions  in  the  cavities  of 
the  rocks  in  the  upper  part  of  these  falls.  The  Indians, 
who  hid  their  provisions  in  these  holes,  and  affirmed 
"that  God  had  cut  them  out  for  that  purpose,"  under 
stood  their  origin  and  use  better  than  the  Royal  Society, 
who  in  their  Transactions,  in  the  last  century,  speaking 
of  these  very  holes,  declare  that  "  they  seem  plainly  to  be 
artificial."  Similar  "  pot-holes  "  may  be  seen  at  the  Stone 
Flume  on  this  river,  on  the  Ottaway,  at  Bellows  Falls  on 
the  Connecticut,  and  in  the  limestone  rock  at  Shelburne 
Falls  on  Deerfield  River  in  Massachusetts,  and  more  or 
less  generally  about  all  falls.  Perhaps  the  most  remark 
able  curiosity  of  this  kind  in  New  England  is  the  well- 
known  Basin  on  the  Pemigewasset,  one  of  the  head 
waters  of  this  river,  twenty  by  thirty  feet  in  extent  and 
proportionably  deep,  with  a  smooth  and  rounded  brim, 
and  filled  with  a  cold,  pellucid,  and  greenish  water.  At 
Amoskeag  the  river  is  divided  into  many  separate  tor 
rents  and  trickling  rills  by  the  rocks,  and  its  volume  is  so 
much  reduced  by  the  drain  of  the  canals  that  it  does  not 
fill  its  bed.  There  are  many  pot-holes  here  on  a  rocky 
island  which  the  river  washes  over  in  high  freshets.  As 
at  Shelburne  Falls,  where  I  first  observed  them,  they  are 


262  A  WEEK 

from  one  foot  to  four  or  five  in  diameter,  and  as  many 
in  depth,  perfectly  round  and  regular,  with  smooth  and 
gracefully  curved  brims,  like  goblets.  Their  origin  is 
apparent  to  the  most  careless  observer.  A  stone  which 
the  current  has  washed  down,  meeting  with  obstacles, 
revolves  as  on  a  pivot  where  it  lies,  gradually  sinking  in 
the  course  of  centuries  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  rock, 
and  in  new  freshets  receiving  the  aid  of  fresh  stones, 
which  are  drawn  into  this  trap  and  doomed  to  revolve 
there  for  an  indefinite  period,  doing  Sisyphus-like 
penance  for  stony  sins,  until  they  either  wear  out  or 
wear  through  the  bottom  of  their  prison,  or  else  are 
released  by  some  revolution  of  nature.  There  lie  the 
stones  of  various  sizes,  from  a  pebble  to  a  foot  or  two  in 
diameter,  some  of  which  have  rested  from  their  labor 
only  since  the  spring,  and  some  higher  up  which  have 
lain  still  and  dry  for  ages,  —  we  noticed  some  here  at 
least  sixteen  feet  above  the  present  level  of  the  water,  — 
while  others  are  still  revolving,  and  enjoy  no  respite  at 
any  season.  In  one  instance,  at  Shelburne  Falls,  they 
have  worn  quite  through  the  rock,  so  that  a  portion  of 
the  river  leaks  through  in  anticipation  of  the  fall.  Some 
of  these  pot-holes  at  Amoskeag,  in  a  very  hard  brown- 
stone,  had  an  oblong,  cylindrical  stone  of  the  same 
material  loosely  fitting  them.  One,  as  much  as  fifteen  feet 
deep  and  seven  or  eight  in  diameter,  which  was  worn 
quite  through  to  the  water,  had  a  huge  rock  of  the  same 
material,  smooth  but  of  irregular  form,  lodged  in  it. 
Everywhere  there  were  the  rudiments  or  the  wrecks  of  a 
dimple  in  the  rock;  the  rocky  shells  of  whirlpools.  As  if 
by  force  of  example  and  sympathy  after  so  many  lessons, 


WEDNESDAY  263 

the  rocks,  the  hardest  material,  had  been  endeavoring  to 
whirl  or  flow  into  the  forms  of  the  most  fluid.  The  finest 
workers  in  stone  are  not  copper  or  steel  tools,  but  the 
gentle  touches  of  air  and  water  working  at  their  leisure 
with  a  liberal  allowance  of  time. 

Not  only  have  some  of  these  basins  been  forming  for 
countless  ages,  but  others  exist  which  must  have  been 
completed  in  a  former  geological  period.  In  deepening 
the  Pawtucket  Canal,  in  1822,  the  workmen  came  to 
ledges  with  pot-holes  in  them,  where  probably  was  once 
the  bed  of  the  river,  and  there  are  some,  we  are  told,  in 
the  town  of  Canaan  in  this  State,  with  the  stones  still  in 
them,  on  the  height  of  land  between  the  Merrimack  and 
Connecticut,  and  nearly  a  thousand  feet  above  these 
rivers,  proving  that  the  mountains  and  the  rivers  have 
changed  places.  There  lie  the  stones  which  completed 
their  revolutions  perhaps  before  thoughts  began  to 
revolve  in  the  brain  of  man.  The  periods  of  Hindoo  and 
Chinese  history,  though  they  reach  back  to  the  time 
when  the  race  of  mortals  is  confounded  with  the  race  of 
gods,  are  as  nothing  compared  with  the  periods  which 
these  stones  have  inscribed.  That  which  commenced  a 
rock  when  time  was  young  shall  conclude  a  pebble  in  the 
unequal  contest.  With  such  expense  of  time  and  natural 
forces  are  our  very  paving-stones  produced.  They  teach 
us  lessons,  these  dumb  workers  ;  verily  there  are  "  ser 
mons  in  stones,  and  books  in  the  running  brooks."  In 
these  very  holes  the  Indians  hid  their  provisions;  but 
now  there  is  no  bread,  but  only  its  old  neighbor  stones  at 
the  bottom.  Who  knows  how  many  races  they  have 
served  thus  ?  By  as  simple  a  law,  some  accidental  bylaw, 


264  A  WEEK 

perchance,  our  system  itself  was  made  ready  for  its 
inhabitants. 

These,  and  such  as  these,  must  be  our  antiquities,  for 
lack  of  human  vestiges.  The  monuments  of  heroes  and 
the  temples  of  the  gods  which  may  once  have  stood  on 
the  banks  of  this  river  are  now,  at  any  rate,  returned  to 
dust  and  primitive  soil.  The  murmur  of  unchronicled 
nations  has  died  away  along  these  shores,  and  once  more 
Lowell  and  Manchester  are  on  the  trail  of  the  Indian. 

The  fact  that  Romans  once  inhabited  her  reflects  no 
little  dignity  on  Nature  herself;  that  from  some  particu 
lar  hill  the  Roman  once  looked  out  on  the  sea.  She  need 
not  be  ashamed  of  the  vestiges  of  her  children.  How 
gladly  the  antiquary  informs  us  that  their  vessels  pene 
trated  into  this  frith,  or  up  that  river  of  some  remote 
isle !  Their  military  monuments  still  remain  on  the  hills 
and  under  the  sod  of  the  valleys.  The  oft-repeated  Ro 
man  story  is  written  in  still  legible  characters  in  every 
quarter  of  the  Old  World,  and  but  to-day,  perchance,  a 
new  coin  is  dug  up  whose  inscription  repeats  and  con 
firms  their  fame.  Some  "  Judaea  Capta,"  with  a  woman 
mourning  under  a  palm  tree,  with  silent  argument  and 
demonstration  confirms  the  pages  of  history. 

"Rome  living  was  the  world's  sole  ornament; 
And  dead  is  now  the  world's  sole  monument. 

With  her  own  weight  down  pressed  now  she  lies, 
And  by  her  heaps  her  hugeness  testifies." 

If  one  doubts  whether  Grecian  valor  and  patriotism 
are  not  a  fiction  of  the  poets,  he  may  go  to  Athens  and 
see  still  upon  the  walls  of  the  temple  of  Minerva  the  cir- 


WEDNESDAY  265 

cular  marks  made  by  the  shields  taken  from  the  enemy 
in  the  Persian  war,  which  were  suspended  there.  We 
have  not  far  to  seek  for  living  and  unquestionable  evi 
dence.  The  very  dust  takes  shape  and  confirms  some 
story  which  we  had  read.  As  Fuller  said,  commenting 
on  the  zeal  of  Camden,  "  A  broken  urn  is  a  whole  evi 
dence;  or  an  old  gate  still  surviving  out  of  which  the 
city  is  run  out."  When  Solon  endeavored  to  prove 
that  Salamis  had  formerly  belonged  to  the  Athenians, 
and  not  to  the  Megareans,  he  caused  the  tombs  to  be 
opened,  and  showed  that  the  inhabitants  of  Salamis 
turned  the  faces  of  their  dead  to  the  same  side  with  the 
Athenians,  but  the  Megareans  to  the  opposite  side. 
There  they  were  to  be  interrogated. 

Some  minds  are  as  little  logical  or  argumentative  as 
nature;  they  can  offer  no  reason  or  "guess,"  but  they 
exhibit  the  solemn  and  incontrovertible  fact.  If  a  his 
torical  question  arises,  they  cause  the  tombs  to  be 
opened.  Their  silent  and  practical  logic  convinces  the 
reason  and  the  understanding  at  the  same  time.  Of  such 
sort  is  always  the  only  pertinent  question  and  the  only 
satisfactory  reply . 

Our  own  country  furnishes  antiquities  as  ancient  and 
durable,  and  as  useful,  as  any;  rocks  at  least  as  well 
covered  with  lichens,  and  a  soil  which,  if  it  is  virgin,  is 
but  virgin  mould,  the  very  dust  of  nature.  What  if  we 
cannot  read  Rome  or  Greece,  Etruria  or  Carthage,  or 
Egypt  or  Babylon,  on  these;  are  our  cliffs  bare?  The 
lichen  on  the  rocks  is  a  rude  and  simple  shield  which 
beginning  and  imperfect  Nature  suspended  there.  Still 
hangs  her  wrinkled  trophy.  And  here,  too,  the  poet's 


266  A  WEEK 

eye  may  still  detect  the  brazen  nails  which  fastened 
Time's  inscriptions,  and  if  he  has  the  gift,  decipher  them 
by  this  clue.  The  walls  that  fence  our  fields,  as  well  as 
modern  Rome,  and  not  less  the  Parthenon  itself,  are 
all  built  of  ruins.  Here  may  be  heard  the  din  of  rivers, 
and  ancient  winds  which  have  long  since  lost  their 
names  sough  through  our  woods,  —  the  first  faint 
sounds  of  spring,  older  than  the  summer  of  Athenian 
glory,  the  titmouse  lisping  in  the  wood,  the  jay's  scream, 
and  bluebird's  warble,  and  the  hum  of 

"bees  that  fly 
About  the  laughing  blossoms  of  sallowy." 

Here  is  the  gray  dawn  for  antiquity,  and  our  to-morrow's 
future  should  be  at  least  paulo-post  to  theirs  which  we 
have  put  behind  us.  There  are  the  red  maple  and  birchen 
leaves,  old  runes  which  are  not  yet  deciphered;  catkins, 
pine  cones,  vines,  oak  leaves,  and  acorns;  the  very 
things  themselves,  and  not  their  forms  in  stone,  —  so 
much  the  more  ancient  and  venerable.  And  even  to  the 
current  summer  there  has  come  down  tradition  of  a 
hoary-headed  master  of  all  art,  who  once  filled  every 
field  and  grove  with  statues  and  godlike  architecture,  of 
every  design  which  Greece  has  lately  copied;  whose 
ruins  are  now  mingled  with  the  dust,  and  not  one  block 
remains  upon  another.  The  century  sun  and  unwearied 
rain  have  wasted  them,  till  not  one  fragment  from  that 
quarry  now  exists;  and  poets  perchance  will  feign  that 
gods  sent  down  the  material  from  heaven. 

What  though  the  traveler  tell  us  of  the  ruins  of  Egypt, 
are  we  so  sick  or  idle  that  we  must  sacrifice  our  America 
and  to-day  to  some  man's  ill-remembered  and  indolent 


WEDNESDAY  267 

story?  Carnac  and  Luxor  are  but  names,  or  if  their 
skeletons  remain,  still  more  desert  sand  and  at  length  a 
wave  of  the  Mediterranean  Sea  are  needed  to  wash  away 
the  filth  that  attaches  to  their  grandeur.  Carnac!  Car 
nac!  here  is  Carnac  for  me.  I  behold  the  columns  of 
a  larger  and  purer  temple. 

This  is  my  Carnac,  whose  unmeasured  dome 
Shelters  the  measuring  art  and  measurer's  home. 
Behold  these  flowers,  let  us  be  up  with  time, 
Not  dreaming  of  three  thousand  years  ago, 
Erect  ourselves  and  let  those  columns  lie, 
Not  stoop  to  raise  a  foil  against  the  sky. 
Where  is  the  spirit  of  that  time  but  in 
This  present  day,  perchance  the  present  line? 
Three  thousand  years  ago  are  not  agone, 
They  are  still  lingering  in  this  summer  morn, 
And  Memnon's  Mother  sprightly  greets  us  now, 
Wearing  her  youthful  radiance  on  her  brow. 
If  Carnac's  columns  still  stand  on  the  plain, 
To  enjoy  our  opportunities  they  remain. 

In  these  parts  dwelt  the  famous  Sachem  Pasacon- 
away,  who  was  seen  by  Gookin  "at  Pawtucket,  when 
he  was  about  one  hundred  and  twenty  years  old."  He 
was  reputed  a  wise  man  and  a  powwow,  and  restrained 
his  people  from  going  to  war  with  the  English.  They 
believed  "  that  he  could  make  water  burn,  rocks  move, 
and  trees  dance,  and  metamorphose  himself  into  a 
flaming  man ;  that  in  winter  he  could  raise  a  green  leaf 
out  of  the  ashes  of  a  dry  one,  and  produce  a  living  snake 
from  the  skin  of  a  dead  one,  and  many  similar  miracles." 
In  1660,  according  to  Gookin,  at  a  great  feast  and  dance, 
he  made  his  farewell  speech  to  his  people,  in  which  he 
said  that  as  he  was  not  likely  to  see  them  met  together 


268  A  WEEK 

again,  he  would  leave  them  this  word  of  advice,  to  take 
heed  how  they  quarreled  with  their  English  neighbors, 
for  though  they  might  do  them  much  mischief  at  first, 
it  would  prove  the  means  of  their  own  destruction.  He 
himself,  he  said,  had  been  as  much  an  enemy  to  the 
English  at  their  first  coming  as  any,  and  had  used  all  his 
arts  to  destroy  them,  or  at  least  to  prevent  their  settle 
ment,  but  could  by  no  means  effect  it.  Gookin  thought 
that  he  "  possibly  might  have  such  a  kind  of  spirit  upon 
him  as  was  upon  Balaam,  who,  in  Numbers  xxiii.  23, 
said,  'Surely,  there  is  no  enchantment  against  Jacob, 
neither  is  there  any  divination  against  Israel.' "  His  son 
Wannalancet  carefully  followed  his  advice,  and  when 
Philip's  war  broke  out,  he  withdrew  his  followers  to 
Penacook,  now  Concord  in  New  Hampshire,  from  the 
scene  of  the  war.  On  his  return  afterwards,  he  visited 
the  minister  of  Chelmsford,  and,  as  is  stated  in  the  his 
tory  of  that  town,  "  wished  to  know  whether  Chelmsford 
had  suffered  much  during  the  war;  and  being  informed 
that  it  had  not,  and  that  God  should  be  thanked  for  it, 
Wannalancet  replied,  'Me  next.' " 

Manchester  was  the  residence  of  John  Stark,  a  hero 
of  two  wars,  and  survivor  of  a  third,  and  at  his  death  the 
last  but  one  of  the  American  generals  of  the  Revolution. 
He  was  born  in  the  adjoining  town  of  Londonderry, 
then  Nutfield,  in  1728.  As  early  as  1752,  he  was  taken 
prisoner  by  the  Indians  while  hunting  in  the  wilderness 
near  Baker's  River;  he  performed  notable  service  as 
a  captain  of  rangers  in  the  French  war;  commanded  a 
regiment  of  the  New  Hampshire  militia  at  the  battle  of 
Bunker  Hill;  and  fought  and  won  the  battle  of  Benning- 


WEDNESDAY  269 

ton  in  1777.  He  was  past  service  in  the  last  war,  and 
died  here  in  1822,  at  the  age  of  ninety-four.  His  monu 
ment  stands  upon  the  second  bank  of  the  river,  about  a 
mile  and  a  half  above  the  falls,  and  commands  a  pros 
pect  several  miles  up  and  down  the  Merrimack.  It  sug 
gested  how  much  more  impressive  in  the  landscape  is  the 
tomb  of  a  hero  than  the  dwellings  of  the  inglorious  liv 
ing.  Who  is  most  dead,  —  a  hero  by  whose  monument 
you  stand,  or  his  descendants  of  whom  you  have  never 
heard  ? 

The  graves  of  Pasaconaway  and  Wannalancet  are 
marked  by  no  monument  on  the  bank  of  their  native 
river. 

Every  town  which  we  passed,  if  we  may  believe  the 
Gazetteer,  had  been  the  residence  of  some  great  man. 
But  though  we  knocked  at  many  doors,  and  even  made 
particular  inquiries,  we  could  not  find  that  there  were 
any  now  living.  Under  the  head  of  Litchfield  we 
read :  — 

"The  Hon.  Wyseman  Clagett  closed  his  life  in  this 
town."  According  to  another,  "He  was  a  classical 
scholar,  a  good  lawyer,  a  wit,  and  a  poet."  We  saw  his 
old  gray  house  just  below  Great  Nesenkeag  Brook.  — 
Under  the  head  of  Merrimack:  "  Hon.  Mathew  Thorn 
ton,  one  of  the  signers  of  the  Declaration  of  American 
Independence,  resided  many  years  in  this  town."  His 
house  too  we  saw  from  the  river.  —  "  Dr.  Jonathan 
Gove,  a  man  distinguished  for  his  urbanity,  his  talents 
and  professional  skill,  resided  in  this  town  [Goffstown]. 
He  was  one  of  the  oldest  practitioners  of  medicine  in  the 
county.  He  was  many  years  an  active  member  of  the 


270  A  WEEK 

legislature."  —  "  Hon.  Robert  Means,  who  died  Janu 
ary  24,  1823,  at  the  age  of  80,  was  for  a  long  period  a 
resident  in  Amherst.  He  was  a  native  of  Ireland.  In 
1764  he  came  to  this  country,  where,  by  his  industry  and 
application  to  business,  he  acquired  a  large  property, 
and  great  respect."  —  "  William  Stinson  [one  of  the  first 
settlers  of  Dunbarton],  born  in  Ireland,  came  to  London 
derry  with  his  father.  He  was  much  respected  and  was  a 
useful  man.  James  Rogers  was  from  Ireland,  and  father 
to  Major  Robert  Rogers.  He  was  shot  in  the  woods, 
being  mistaken  for  a  bear."  —  "  Rev.  Matthew  Clark, 
second  minister  of  Londonderry,  was  a  native  of  Ireland, 
who  had  in  early  life  been  an  officer  in  the  army,  and 
distinguished  himself  in  the  defense  of  the  city  of  Lon 
donderry,  when  besieged  by  the  army  of  King  James  II., 
A.  D.  1688-89.  He  afterwards  relinquished  a  military 
life  for  the  clerical  profession.  He  possessed  a  strong 
mind,  marked  by  a  considerable  degree  of  eccentricity. 
He  died  January  25,  1735,  and  was  borne  to  the  grave, 
at  his  particular  request,  by  his  former  companions 
in  arms,  of  whom  there  were  a  considerable  number 
among  the  early  settlers  of  this  town;  several  of  them 
had  been  made  free  from  taxes  throughout  the  British 
dominions  by  King  William,  for  their  bravery  in  that 
memorable  siege."  —  Colonel  George  Reid  and  Cap 
tain  David  M' Clary,  also  citizens  of  Londonderry,  were 
"distinguished  and  brave"  officers.  — "Major  Andrew 
M'Clary,  a  native  of  this  town  [Epsom],  fell  at  the  battle 
of  Breed's  Hill."  Many  of  these  heroes,  like  the  illustri 
ous  Roman,  were  plowing  when  the  news  of  the  massacre 
at  Lexington  arrived,  and  straightway  left  their  plows  in 


WEDNESDAY  271 

the  furrow,  and  repaired  to  the  scene  of  action.  Some 
miles  from  where  we  now  were,  there  once  stood  a  guide- 
post  on  which  were  the  words,  "  3  miles  to  Squire  Mac- 
Gaw's." 

But,  generally  speaking,  the  land  is  now,  at  any  rate, 
very  barren  of  men,  and  we  doubt  if  there  are  as  many 
hundreds  as  we  read  of.  It  may  be  that  we  stood  too 
near. 

Uncannunuc  Mountain  in  Goffstown  was  visible  from 
Amoskeag,  five  or  six  miles  westward.  It  is  the  north- 
easternmost  in  the  horizon  which  we  see  from  our  native 
town,  but  seen  from  there  is  too  ethereally  blue  to  be  the 
same  which  the  like  of  us  have  ever  climbed.  Its  name 
is  said  to  mean  "  The  Two  Breasts,"  there  being  two 
eminences  some  distance  apart.  The  highest,  which  is 
about  fourteen  hundred  feet  above  the  sea,  probably 
affords  a  more  extensive  view  of  the  Merrimack  valley 
and  the  adjacent  country  than  any  other  hill,  though  it 
is  somewhat  obstructed  by  woods.  Only  a  few  short 
reaches  of  the  river  are  visible,  but  you  can  trace  its 
course  far  down-stream  by  the  sandy  tracts  on  its  banks. 

A  little  south  of  Uncannunuc,  about  sixty  years  ago, 
as  the  story  goes,  an  old  woman  who  went  out  to  gather 
pennyroyal  tripped  her  foot  in  the  bail  of  a  small  brass 
kettle  in  the  dead  grass  and  bushes.  Some  say  that  flints 
and  charcoal  and  some  traces  of  a  camp  were  also  found. 
This  kettle,  holding  about  four  quarts,  is  still  preserved 
and  used  to  dye  thread  in.  It  is  supposed  to  have 
belonged  to  some  old  French  or  Indian  hunter,  who  was 
killed  in  one  of  his  hunting  or  scouting  excursions,  and 
so  never  returned  to  look  after  his  kettle. 


272  A  WEEK 

But  we  were  most  interested  to  hear  of  the  penny 
royal;  it  is  soothing  to  be  reminded  that  wild  nature 
produces  anything  ready  for  the  use  of  man.  Men  know 
that  something  is  good.  One  says  that  it  is  yellow  dock, 
another  that  it  is  bittersweet,  another  that  it  is  slippery- 
elm  bark,  burdock,  catnip,  calamint,  elecampane,  thor- 
oughwort,  or  pennyroyal.  A  man  may  esteem  himself 
happy  when  that  which  is  his  food  is  also  his  medicine. 
There  is  no  kind  of  herb,  but  somebody  or  other  says 
that  it  is  good.  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it.  It  reminds  me  of 
the  first  chapter  of  Genesis.  But  how  should  they  know 
that  it  is  good  ?  That  is  the  mystery  to  me.  I  am  always 
agreeably  disappointed ;  it  is  incredible  that  they  should 
have  found  it  out.  Since  all  things  are  good,  men  fail  at 
last  to  distinguish  which  is  the  bane  and  which  the  anti 
dote.  There  are  sure  to  be  two  prescriptions  diametri 
cally  opposite.  Stuff  a  cold  and  starve  a  cold  are  but  two 
ways.  They  are  the  two  practices,  both  always  in  full 
blast.  Yet  you  must  take  advice  of  the  one  school  as  if 
there  was  no  other.  In  respect  to  religion  and  the  healing 
art,  all  nations  are  still  in  a  state  of  barbarism.  In  the 
most  civilized  countries  the  priest  is  still  but  a  Powwow, 
and  the  physician  a  Great  Medicine.  Consider  the  def 
erence  which  is  everywhere  paid  to  a  doctor's  opinion. 
Nothing  more  strikingly  betrays  the  credulity  of  man 
kind  than  medicine.  Quackery  is  a  thing  universal,  and 
universally  successful.  In  this  case  it  becomes  literally 
true  that  no  imposition  is  too  great  for  the  credulity  of 
men.  Priests  and  physicians  should  never  look  one  an 
other  in  the  face.  They  have  no  common  ground,  nor  is 
there  any  to  mediate  between  them.  When  the  one 


WEDNESDAY  273 

comes,  the  other  goes.  They  could  not  come  together 
without  laughter,  or  a  significant  silence,  for  the  one's 
profession  is  a  satire  on  the  other's,  and  cither's  success 
would  be  the  other's  failure.  It  is  wonderful  that  the 
physician  should  ever  die,  and  that  the  priest  should 
ever  live.  Why  is  it  that  the  priest  is  never  called  to  con 
sult  with  the  physician  ?  Is  it  because  men  believe  prac 
tically  that  matter  is  independent  of  spirit  ?  But  what 
is  quackery  ?  It  is  commonly  an  attempt  to  cure  the 
diseases  of  a  man  by  addressing  his  body  alone.  There 
is  need  of  a  physician  who  shall  minister  to  both  soul  and 
body  at  once,  that  is,  to  man.  Now  he  falls  between  two 
stools. 

After  passing  through  the  locks,  we  had  poled  our 
selves  through  the  canal  here,  about  half  a  mile  in  length, 
to  the  boatable  part  of  the  river.  Above  Amoskeag  the 
river  spreads  out  into  a  lake  reaching  a  mile  or  two  with 
out  a  bend.  There  were  many  canal-boats  here  bound  up 
to  Hooksett,  about  eight  miles,  and  as  they  were  going 
up  empty,  with  a  fair  wind,  one  boatman  offered  to  take 
us  in  tow  if  we  would  wait.  But  when  we  came  along 
side,  we  found  that  they  meant  to  take  us  on  board,  since 
otherwise  we  should  clog  their  motions  too  much;  but  as 
our  boat  was  too  heavy  to  be  lifted  aboard,  we  pursued 
our  way  up  the  stream,  as  before,  while  the  boatmen 
were  at  their  dinner,  and  came  to  anchor  at  length  under 
some  alders  on  the  opposite  shore,  where  we  could  take 
our  lunch.  Though  far  on  one  side,  every  sound  was 
wafted  over  to  us  from  the  opposite  bank,  and  from  the 
harbor  of  the  canal,  and  we  could  see  everything  that 
passed.  By  and  by  came  several  canal-boats,  at  intervals 


274  A  WEEK 

of  a  quarter  of  a  mile,  standing  up  to  Hooksett  with  a 
light  breeze,  and  one  by  one  disappeared  round  a  point 
above.  With  their  broad  sails  set,  they  moved  slowly 
up  the  stream  in  the  sluggish  and  fitful  breeze,  like  one- 
winged  antediluvian  birds,  and  as  if  impelled  by  some 
mysterious  counter-current.  It  was  a  grand  motion,  so 
slow  and  stately,  this  "  standing  out,"  as  the  phrase  is, 
expressing  the  gradual  and  steady  progress  of  a  vessel, 
as  if  it  were  by  mere  rectitude  and  disposition,  without 
shuffling.  Their  sails,  which  stood  so  still,  were  like  chips 
cast  into  the  current  of  the  air,  to  show  which  way  it  set. 
At  length  the  boat  which  we  had  spoken  came  along, 
keeping  the  middle  of  the  stream,  and  when  within 
speaking  distance,  the  steersman  called  out  ironically  to 
say  that  if  we  could  come  alongside  now,  he  would  take 
us  in  tow;  but  not  heeding  his  taunt,  we  still  loitered  in 
the  shade  till  we  had  finished  our  lunch,  and  when  the 
last  boat  had  disappeared  round  the  point  with  flapping 
sail,  for  the  breeze  had  now  sunk  to  a  zephyr,  with  our 
own  sails  set,  and  plying  our  oars,  we  shot  rapidly  up  the 
stream  in  pursuit,  and  as  we  glided  close  alongside, 
while  they  were  vainly  invoking  ^Eolus  to  their  aid,  we 
returned  their  compliment  by  proposing,  if  they  would 
throw  us  a  rope,  to  "  take  them  in  tow,"  to  which  these 
Merrimack  sailors  had  no  suitable  answer  ready.  Thus 
we  gradually  overtook  and  passed  each  boat  in  succes 
sion  until  we  had  the  river  to  ourselves  again. 

Our  course  this  afternoon  was  between  Manchester 
and  Goffstown. 


While  we  float  here,  far  from  that  tributary  stream 


WEDNESDAY  275 

on  whose  banks  our  Friends  and  kindred  dwell,  our 
thoughts,  like  the  stars,  come  out  of  their  horizon  still; 
for  there  circulates  a  finer  blood  than  Lavoisier  has 
discovered  the  laws  of,  —  the  blood,  not  of  kindred 
merely,  but  of  kindness,  whose  pulse  still  beats  at  any 
distance  and  forever. 

True  kindness  is  a  pure  divine  affinity, 
Not  founded  upon  human  consanguinity. 
It  is  a  spirit,  not  a  blood  relation, 
Superior  to  family  and  station. 

After  years  of  vain  familiarity,  some  distant  gesture  or 
unconscious  behavior,  which  we  remember,  speaks  to  us 
with  more  emphasis  than  the  wisest  or  kindest  words. 
We  are  sometimes  made  aware  of  a  kindness  long 
passed,  and  realize  that  there  have  been  times  when  our 
Friends'  thoughts  of  us  were  of  so  pure  and  lofty  a  char 
acter  that  they  passed  over  us  like  the  winds  of  heaven 
unnoticed;  when  they  treated  us  not  as  what  we  were, 
but  as  what  we  aspired  to  be.  There  has  just  reached  us, 
it  may  be,  the  nobleness  of  some  such  silent  behavior, 
not  to  be  forgotten,  not  to  be  remembered,  and  we  shud 
der  to  think  how  it  fell  on  us  cold,  though  in  some  true 
but  tardy  hour  we  endeavor  to  wipe  off  these  scores. 

In  my  experience,  persons,  when  they  are  made  the 
subject  of  conversation,  though  with  a  Friend,  are  com 
monly  the  most  prosaic  and  trivial  of  facts.  The  uni 
verse  seems  bankrupt  as  soon  as  we  begin  to  discuss  the 
character  of  individuals.  Our  discourse  all  runs  to 
slander,  and  our  limits  grow  narrower  as  we  advance. 
How  is  it  that  we  are  impelled  to  treat  our  old  Friends  so 
ill  when  we  obtain  new  ones  ?  The  housekeeper  says,  I 


276  A  WEEK 

never  had  any  new  crockery  in  my  life  but  I  began  to 
break  the  old.  I  say,  let  us  speak  of  mushrooms  and 
forest  trees  rather.  Yet  we  can  sometimes  afford  to 
remember  them  in  private. 

Lately,  alas,  I  knew  a  gentle  boy, 

Whose  features  all  were  cast  in  Virtue's  mould, 

As  one  she  had  designed  for  Beauty's  toy, 
But  after  manned  him  for  her  own  stronghold. 

* 

On  every  side  he  open  was  as  day, 
That  you  might  see  no  lack  of  strength  within, 

For  walls  and  ports  do  only  serve  alway 
For  a  pretense  to  feebleness  and  sin. 

Say  not  that  Caesar  was  victorious, 

With  toil  and  strife  who  stormed  the  House  of  Fame, 
In  other  sense  this  youth  was  glorious, 

Himself  a  kingdom  wheresoe'er  he  came. 

No  strength  went  out  to  get  him  victory, 

When  all  was  income  of  its  own  accord; 
For  where  he  went  none  other  was  to  see, 

But  all  were  parcel  of  their  noble  lord. 

He  forayed  like  the  subtile  haze  of  summer, 
That  stilly  shows  fresh  landscapes  to  our  eyes, 

And  revolutions  works  without  a  murmur, 
Or  rustling  of  a  leaf  beneath  the  skies. 

So  was  I  taken  unawares  by  this, 

I  quite  forgot  my  homage  to  confess; 
Yet  now  am  forced  to  know,  though  hard  it  is, 

I  might  have  loved  him  had  I  loved  him  less. 

Each  moment  as  we  nearer  drew  to  each, 

A  stem  respect  withheld  us  farther  yet, 
So  that  we  seemed  beyond  each  other's  reach, 

And  less  acquainted  than  when  first  we  met. 


WEDNESDAY  277 

We  two  were  one  while  we  did  sympathize, 
So  could  we  not  the  simplest  bargain  drive; 

And  what  avails  it  now  that  we  are  wise, 
If  absence  doth  this  doubleness  contrive? 

Eternity  may  not  the  chance  repeat, 

But  I  must  tread  my  single  way  alone,  » 

In  sad  remembrance  that  we  once  did  meet, 

And  know  that  bliss  irrevocably  gone. 

The  spheres  henceforth  my  elegy  shall  sing, 

For  elegy  has  other  subject  none; 
Each  strain  of  music  in  my  ears  shall  ring 

Knell  of  departure  from  that  other  one. 

Make  haste  and  celebrate  my  tragedy; 

With  fitting  strain  resound  ye  woods  and  fields; 
Sorrow  is  dearer  in  such  case  to  me 

Than  all  the  joys  other  occasion  yields. 


Is  't  then  too  late  the  damage  to  repair  ? 

Distance,  forsooth,  from  my  weak  grasp  hath  reft 
The  empty  husk,  and  clutched  the  useless  tare, 

But  in  my  hands  the  wheat  and  kernel  left. 

If  I  but  love  that  virtue  which  he  is, 
Though  it  be  scented  in  the  morning  air, 

Still  shall  we  be  truest  acquaintances, 
Nor  mortals  know  a  sympathy  more  rare. 

Friendship  is  evanescent  in  every  man's  experience, 
and  remembered  like  heat  lightning  in  past  summers. 
Fair  and  flitting  like  a  summer  cloud,  —  there  is  always 
some  vapor  in  the  air,  no  matter  how  long  the  drought ; 
there  are  even  April  showers.  Surely  from  time  to  time, 
for  its  vestiges  never  depart,  it  floats  through  our  atmo 
sphere.  It  takes  place,  like  vegetation  in  so  many  mate- 


278  A  WEEK 

rials,  because  there  is  such  a  law,  but  always  without 
permanent  form,  though  ancient  and  familiar  as  the  sun 
and  moon,  and  as  sure  to  come  again.  The  heart  is  for 
ever  inexperienced.  They  silently  gather  as  by  magic, 
these  never  failing,  never  quite  deceiving  visions,  like  the 
bright  and  fleecy  clouds  in  the  calmest  and  clearest  days. 
The  Friend  is  some  fair  floating  isle  of  palms  eluding  the 
mariner  in  Pacific  seas.  Many  are  the  dangers  to  be  en 
countered,  equinoctial  gales  and  coral  reefs,  ere  he  may 
sail  before  the  constant  trades.  But  who  would  not  sail 
through  mutiny  and  storm,  even  over  Atlantic  waves, 
to  reach  the  fabulous  retreating  shores  of  some  continent 
man  ?  The  imagination  still  clings  to  the  faintest  tradi 
tion  of 

THE  ATLANTIDES 

The  smothered  streams  of  love,  which  flow 

More  bright  than  Phlegethon,  more  low, 

Island  us  ever,  like  the  sea, 

In  an  Atlantic  mystery. 

Our  fabled  shores  none  ever  reach, 

No  mariner  has  found  our  beach, 

Scarcely  our  mirage  now  is  seen, 

And  neighboring  waves  with  floating  green, 

Yet  still  the  oldest  charts  contain 

Some  dotted  outline  of  our  main; 

In  ancient  times  midsummer  days 

Unto  the  western  islands'  gaze, 

To  Teneriffe  and  the  Azores, 

Have  shown  our  faint  and  cloud-like  shores. 

But  sink  not  yet,  ye  desolate  isles, 
Anon  your  coast  with  commerce  smiles, 
And  richer  freights  ye '11  furnish  far 
Than  Africa  or  Malabar. 


WEDNESDAY  279 

Be  fair,  be  fertile  evermore, 
Ye  rumored  but  untrodden  shore, 
Princes  and  monarchs  will  contend 
Who  first  unto  your  land  shall  send, 
And  pawn  the  jewels  of  the  crown 
To  call  your  distant  soil  their  own. 

Columbus  has  sailed  westward  of  these  isles  by  the 
mariner's  compass,  but  neither  he  nor  his  successors 
have  found  them.  We  are  no  nearer  than  Plato  was. 
The  earnest  seeker  and  hopeful  discoverer  of  this  New 
World  always  haunts  the  outskirts  of  his  time,  and  walks 
through  the  densest  crowd  uninterrupted,  and,  as  it 
were,  in  a  straight  line. 

Sea  and  land  are  but  his  neighbors, 

And  companions  in  his  labors, 

Who  on  the  ocean's  verge  and  firm  land's  end 

Doth  long  and  truly  seek  his  Friend. 

Many  men  dwell  far  inland, 

But  he  alone  sits  on  the  strand. 

Whether  he  ponders  men  or  books 

Always  still  he  seaward  looks, 

Marine  news  he  ever  reads, 

And  the  slightest  glances  heeds, 

Feels  the  sea  breeze  on  his  cheek, 

At  each  word  the  landsmen  speak, 

In  every  companion's  eye 

A  sailing  vessel  doth  descry; 

In  the  ocean's  sullen  roar 

From  some  distant  port  he  hears 

Of  wrecks  upon  a  distant  shore, 

And  the  ventures  of  past  years. 

Who  does  not  walk  on  the  plain  as  amid  the  columns 
of  Tadmore  of  the  desert?  There  is  on  the  earth  no 
institution  which  Friendship  has  established;  it  is  not 


280  A  WEEK 

taught  by  any  religion;  no  scripture  contains  its  max 
ims.  It  has  no  temple,  nor  even  a  solitary  column. 
There  goes  a  rumor  that  the  earth  is  inhabited,  but  the 
shipwrecked  mariner  has  not  seen  a  footprint  on  the 
shore.  The  hunter  has  found  only  fragments  of  pottery 
and  the  monuments  of  inhabitants. 

However,  our  fates  at  least  are  social.  Our  courses 
do  not  diverge;  but  as  the  web  of  destiny  is  woven  it  is 
fulled,  and  we  are  cast  more  and  more  into  the  centre. 
Men  naturally,  though  feebly,  seek  this  alliance,  and 
their  actions  faintly  foretell  it.  We  are  inclined  to  lay 
the  chief  stress  on  likeness  and  not  on  difference,  and 
in  foreign  bodies  we  admit  that  there  are  many  de 
grees  of  warmth  below  blood  heat,  but  none  of  cold 
above  it. 

Mencius  says :  "  If  one  loses  a  fowl  or  a  dog,  he  knows 
well  how  to  seek  them  again ;  if  one  loses  the  sentiments 
of  his  heart,  he  does  not  know  how  to  seek  them  again. 
.  .  .  The  duties  of  practical  philosophy  consist  only  in 
seeking  after  those  sentiments  of  the  heart  which  we 
have  lost;  that  is  all." 

One  or  two  persons  come  to  my  house  from  time  to 
time,  there  being  proposed  to  them  the  faint  possibility 
of  intercourse.  They  are  as  full  as  they  are  silent,  and 
wait  for  my  plectrum  to  stir  the  strings  of  their  lyre.  If 
they  could  ever  come  to  the  length  of  a  sentence,  or  hear 
one,  on  that  ground  they  are  dreaming  of!  They  speak 
faintly,  and  do  not  obtrude  themselves.  They  have  heard 
some  news,  which  none,  not  even  they  themselves,  can 
impart.  It  is  a  wealth  they  can  bear  about  them  which 


WEDNESDAY  281 

can  be  expended  in  various  ways.  What  came  they  out 
to  seek? 

No  word  is  oftener  on  the  lips  of  men  than  Friendship, 
and  indeed  no  thought  is  more  familiar  to  their  aspira 
tions.  All  men  are  dreaming  of  it,  and  its  drama,  which 
is  always  a  tragedy,  is  enacted  daily.  It  is  the  secret  of 
the  universe.  You  may  thread  the  town,  you  may  wan 
der  the  country,  and  none  shall  ever  speak  of  it,  yet 
thought  is  everywhere  busy  about  it,  and  the  idea  of  what 
is  possible  in  this  respect  affects  our  behavior  toward 
all  new  men  and  women,  and  a  great  many  old  ones. 
Nevertheless,  I  can  remember  only  two  or  three  essays 
on  this  subject  in  all  literature.  No  wonder  that  the 
Mythology,  and  Arabian  Nights,  and  Shakespeare, 
and  Scott's  novels  entertain  us,  —  we  are  poets  and 
fablers  and  dramatists  and  novelists  ourselves.  We  are 
continually  acting  a  part  in  a  more  interesting  drama 
than  any  written.  We  are  dreaming  that  our  Friends 
are  our  Friends,  and  that  we  are  our  Friends'  Friends. 
Our  actual  Friends  are  but  distant  relations  of  those  to 
whom  we  are  pledged.  We  never  exchange  more  than 
three  words  with  a  Friend  in  our  lives  on  that  level  to 
which  our  thoughts  and  feelings  almost  habitually  rise. 
One  goes  forth  prepared  to  say,  "  Sweet  Friends ! "  and 
the  salutation  is,  "  Damn  your  eyes! "  But  never  mind; 
faint  heart  never  won  true  Friend.  O  my  Friend,  may  it 
come  to  pass  once,  that  when  you  are  my  Friend  I  may 
be  yours.  , 

Of  what  use  the  friendliest  dispositions  even,  if  there 
are  no  hours  given  to  Friendship,  if  it  is  forever  post 
poned  to  unimportant  duties  and  relations  ?  Friendship 


A  WEEK 

is  first,  Friendship  last.  But  it  is  equally  impossible  to 
forget  our  Friends,  and  to  make  them  answer  to  our 
ideal.  When  they  say  farewell,  then  indeed  we  begin 
to  keep  them  company.  How  often  we  find  ourselves 
turning  our  backs  on  our  actual  Friends,  that  we  may 
go  and  meet  their  ideal  cousins.  I  would  that  I  were 
worthy  to  be  any  man's  Friend. 

What  is  commonly  honored  with  the  name  of  Friend 
ship  is  no  very  profound  or  powerful  instinct.  Men  do 
not,  after  all,  love  their  Friends  greatly.  I  do  not  often 
see  the  farmers  made  seers  and  wise  to  the  verge  of 
insanity  by  their  Friendship  for  one  another.  They  are 
not  often  transfigured  and  translated  by  love  in  each 
other's  presence.  I  do  not  observe  them  purified,  refined, 
and  elevated  by  the  love  of  a  man.  If  one  abates  a  little 
the  price  of  his  wood,  or  gives  a  neighbor  his  vote  at 
town-meeting,  or  a  barrel  of  apples,  or  lends  him  his 
wagon  frequently,  it  is  esteemed  a  rare  instance  of  Friend 
ship.  Nor  do  the  farmers'  wives  lead  lives  consecrated  to 
Friendship.  I  do  not  see  the  pair  of  farmer  Friends  of 
either  sex  prepared  to  stand  against  the  world.  There 
are  only  two  or  three  couples  in  history.  To  say  that  a 
man  is  your  Friend  means  commonly  no  more  than 
this,  that  he  is  not  your  enemy.  Most  contemplate  only 
what  would  be  the  accidental  and  trifling  advantages  of 
Friendship,  so  that  the  Friend  can  assist  in  time  of  need, 
by  his  substance,  or  his  influence,  or  his  counsel;  but 
he  who  foresees  such  advantages  in  this  relation  proves 
himself  blind  to  its  real  advantage,  or  indeed  wholly 
inexperienced  in  the  relation  itself.  Such  services  are 
particular  and  menial,  compared  with  the  perpetual  and 


WEDNESDAY  283 

all-embracing  service  which  it  is.  Even  the  utmost  good 
will  and  harmony  and  practical  kindness  are  not  suffi 
cient  for  Friendship,  for  Friends  do  not  live  in  harmony 
merely,  as  some  say,  but  in  melody.  We  do  not  wish  for 
Friends  to  feed  and  clothe  our  bodies,  —  neighbors  are 
kind  enough  for  that,  —  but  to  do  the  like  office  to  our 
spirits.  For  this  few  are  rich  enough,  however  well  dis 
posed  they  may  be.  For  the  most  part  we  stupidly  con 
found  one  man  with  another.  The  dull  distinguish  only 
races  or  nations,  or  at  most  classes,  but  the  wise  man, 
individuals.  To  his  Friend  a  man's  peculiar  character 
appears  in  every  feature  and  in  every  action,  and  it  is 
thus  drawn  out  and  improved  by  him. 

Think  of  the  importance  of  Friendship  in  the  educa 
tion  of  men. 

"He  that  hath  love  and  judgment  too, 
Sees  more  than  any  other  doe." 

It  will  make  a  man  honest;  it  will  make  him  a  hero; 
it  will  make  him  a  saint.  It  is  the  state  of  the  just  dealing 
with  the  just,  the  magnanimous  with  the  magnanimous, 
the  sincere  with  the  sincere,  man  with  man. 

And  it  is  well  said  by  another  poet,  — 

"Why  love  among  the  virtues  is  not  known, 
It  is  that  love  contracts  them  all  in  one." 

All  the  abuses  which  are  the  object  of  reform  with  the 
philanthropist,  the  statesman,  and  the  housekeeper  are 
unconsciously  amended  in  the  intercourse  of  Friends. 
A  Friend  is  one  who  incessantly  pays  us  the  compliment 
of  expecting  from  us  all  the  virtues,  and  who  can  appre 
ciate  them  in  us.  It  takes  two  to  speak  the  truth,  —  one 
to  speak,  and  another  to  hear.  How  can  one  treat  with 


284  A  WEEK 

magnanimity  mere  wood  and  stone  ?  If  we  dealt  only 
with  the  false  and  dishonest,  we  should  at  last  forget 
how  to  speak  truth.  Only  lovers  know  the  value  and 
magnanimity  of  truth,  while  traders  prize  a  cheap  hon 
esty,  and  neighbors  and  acquaintance  a  cheap  civility. 
In  our  daily  intercourse  with  men,  our  nobler  faculties 
are  dormant  and  suffered  to  rust.  None  will  pay  us  the 
compliment  to  expect  nobleness  from  us.  Though  we 
have  gold  to  give,  they  demand  only  copper.  We  ask  our 
neighbor  to  suffer  himself  to  be  dealt  with  truly,  sincerely, 
nobly;  but  he  answers  no  by  his  deafness.  He  does  not 
even  hear  this  prayer.  He  says  practically,  I  will  be  con 
tent  if  you  treat  me  as  "  no  better  than  I  should  be,"  as 
deceitful,  mean,  dishonest,  and  selfish.  For  the  most 
part,  we  are  contented  so  to  deal  and  to  be  dealt  with, 
and  we  do  not  think  that  for  the  mass  of  men  there  is  any 
truer  and  nobler  relation  possible.  A  man  may  have 
good  neighbors,  so  called,  and  acquaintances,  and  even 
companions,  wife,  parents,  brothers,  sisters,  children, 
who  meet  himself  and  one  another  on  this  ground  only. 
The  state  does  not  demand  justice  of  its  members,  but 
thinks  that  it  succeeds  very  well  with  the  least  degree 
of  it,  hardly  more  than  rogues  practice;  and  so  do  the 
neighborhood  and  the  family.  What  is  commonly  called 
Friendship  even  is  only  a  little  more  honor  among  rogues. 
But  sometimes  we  are  said  to  love  another,  that  is, 
to  stand  in  a  true  relation  to  him,  so  that  we  give  the  best 
to,  and  receive  the  best  from,  him.  Between  whom  there 
is  hearty  truth,  there  is  love;  and  in  proportion  to  our 
truthfulness  and  confidence  in  one  another,  our  lives 
are  divine  and  miraculous,  and  answer  to  our  ideal. 


WEDNESDAY  285 

There  are  passages  of  affection  in  our  intercourse  with 
mortal  men  and  women,  such  as  no  prophecy  had  taught 
us  to  expect,  which  transcend  our  earthly  life,  and  antici 
pate  Heaven  for  us.  What  is  this  Love  that  may  come 
right  into  the  middle  of  a  prosaic  Goffstown  day,  equal 
to  any  of  the  gods  ?  that  discovers  a  new  world,  fair  and 
fresh  and  eternal,  occupying  the  place  of  the  old  one, 
when  to  the  common  eye  a  dust  has  settled  on  the 
universe  ?  which  world  cannot  else  be  reached,  and  does 
not  exist.  What  other  words,  we  may  almost  ask,  are 
memorable  and  worthy  to  be  repeated  than  those  which 
love  has  inspired  ?  It  is  wonderful  that  they  were  ever 
uttered.  They  are  few  and  rare  indeed,  but,  like  a  strain 
of  music,  they  are  incessantly  repeated  and  modulated 
by  the  memory.  All  other  words  crumble  off  with  the 
stucco  which  overlies  the  heart.  We  should  not  dare  to 
repeat  these  now  aloud.  We  are  not  competent  to  hear 
them  at  all  times. 

The  books  for  young  people  say  a  great  deal  about 
the  selection  of  Friends;  it  is  because  they  really  have 
nothing  to  say  about  Friends.  They  mean  associates 
and  confidants  merely.  "  Know  that  the  contrariety  of 
foe  and  Friend  proceeds  from  God."  Friendship  takes 
place  between  those  who  have  an  affinity  for  one  another, 
and  is  a  perfectly  natural  and  inevitable  result.  No  pro 
fessions  nor  advances  will  avail.  Even  speech,  at  first, 
necessarily  has  nothing  to  do  with  it;  but  it  follows  after 
silence,  as  the  buds  in  the  graft  do  not  put  forth  into 
leaves  till  long  after  the  graft  has  taken.  It  is  a  drama 
in  which  the  parties  have  no  part  to  act.  We  are  all 
Mussulmans  and  fatalists  in  this  respect.  Impatient  and 


286  A  WEEK 

uncertain  lovers  think  that  they  must  say  or  do  some 
thing  kind  whenever  they  meet;  they  must  never  be  cold. 
But  they  who  are  Friends  do  not  do  what  they  think 
they  must,  but  what  they  must.  Even  their  Friendship 
is  to  some  extent  but  a  sublime  phenomenon  to  them. 

The  true  and  not  despairing  Friend  will  address  his 
Friend  in  some  such  terms  as  these. 

"  I  never  asked  thy  leave  to  let  me  love  thee,  —  I  have 
a  right.  I  love  thee  not  as  something  private  and  per 
sonal,  which  is  your  own,  but  as  something  universal 
and  worthy  of  love,  which  I  have  found.  Oh,  how  I  think 
of  you !  You  are  purely  good,  —  you  are  infinitely  good. 
I  can  trust  you  forever.  I  did  not  think  that  humanity 
was  so  rich.  Give  me  an  opportunity  to  live." 

"  You  are  the  fact  in  a  fiction,  —  you  are  the  truth 
more  strange  and  admirable  than  fiction.  Consent  only 
to  be  what  you  are.  I  alone  will  never  stand  in  your  way." 

"  This  is  what  I  would  like,  —  to  be  as  intimate  with 
you  as  our  spirits  are  intimate,  —  respecting  you  as  I 
respect  my  ideal.  Never  to  profane  one  another  by  word 
or  action,  even  by  a  thought.  Between  us,  if  necessary, 
let  there  be  no  acquaintance." 

"I  have  discovered  you;  how  can  you  be  concealed 
from  me?" 

The  Friend  asks  no  return  but  that  his  Friend  will 
religiously  accept  and  wear  and  not  disgrace  his  apotheo 
sis  of  him.  They  cherish  each  other's  hopes.  They  are 
kind  to  each  other's  dreams. 

Though  the  poet  says,  "'Tis  the  preeminence  of 
Friendship  to  impute  excellence,"  yet  we  can  never 
praise  our  Friend,  nor  esteem  him  praiseworthy,  nor  let 


WEDNESDAY  287 

him  think  that  he  can  please  us  by  any  behavior,  or  ever 
treat  us  well  enough.  That  kindness  which  has  so  good 
a  reputation  elsewhere  can  least  of  all  consist  with  this 
relation,  and  no  such  affront  can  be  offered  to  a  Friend 
as  a  conscious  good-will,  a  friendliness  which  is  not  a 
necessity  of  the  Friend's  nature. 

The  sexes  are  naturally  most  strongly  attracted  to  one 
another  by  constant  constitutional  differences,  and  are 
most  commonly  and  surely  the  complements  of  each 
other.  How  natural  and  easy  it  is  for  man  to  secure  the 
attention  of  woman  to  what  interests  himself!  Men  and 
women  of  equal  culture,  thrown  together,  are  sure  to  be 
of  a  certain  value  to  one  another,  more  than  men  to  men. 
There  exists  already  a  natural  disinterestedness  and 
liberality  in  such  society,  and  I  think  that  any  man  will 
more  confidently  carry  his  favorite  books  to  read  to  some 
circle  of  intelligent  women,  than  to  one  of  his  own  sex. 
The  visit  of  man  to  man  is  wont  to  be  an  interruption, 
but  the  sexes  naturally  expect  one  another.  Yet  Friend 
ship  is  no  respecter  of  sex;  and  perhaps  it  is  more  rare 
between  the  sexes  than  between  two  of  the  same  sex. 

Friendship  is,  at  any  rate,  a  relation  of  perfect  equal 
ity.  It  cannot  well  spare  any  outward  sign  of  equal 
obligation  and  advantage.  The  nobleman  can  never 
have  a  Friend  among  his  retainers,  nor  the  king  among 
his  subjects.  Not  that  the  parties  to  it  are  in  all  respects 
equal,  but  they  are  equal  in  all  that  respects  or  affects 
their  Friendship.  The  one's  love  is  exactly  balanced 
and  represented  by  the  other's.  Persons  are  only  the  ves 
sels  which  contain  the  nectar,  and  the  hydrostatic  para 
dox  is  the  symbol  of  love's  law.  It  finds  its  level  and 


288  A  WEEK 

rises  to  its  fountain-head  in  all  breasts,  and  its  slenderest 
column  balances  the  ocean. 

"And  love  as  well  the  shepherd  can 
As  can  the  mighty  nobleman." 

The  one  sex  is  not,  in  this  respect,  more  tender  than  the 
other.    A  hero's  love  is  as  delicate  as  a  maiden's. 

Confucius  said,  "Never  contract  Friendship  with  a 
man  who  is  not  better  than  thyself."  It  is  the  merit  and 
preservation  of  Friendship,  that  it  takes  place  on  a  level 
higher  than  the  actual  characters  of  the  parties  would 
seem  to  warrant.  The  rays  of  light  come  to  us  in  such  a 
curve  that  every  man  whom  we  meet  appears  to  be  taller 
than  he  actually  is.  Such  foundation  has  civility.  My 
Friend  is  that  one  whom  I  can  associate  with  my  choicest 
thought.  I  always  assign  to  him  a  nobler  employment 
in  my  absence  than  I  ever  find  him  engaged  in;  and  I 
imagine  that  the  hours  which  he  devotes  to  me  were 
snatched  from  a  higher  society.  The  sorest  insult  which 
I  ever  received  from  a  Friend  was  when  he  behaved  with 
the  license  which  only  long  and  cheap  acquaintance 
allows  to  one's  faults,  in  my  presence,  without  shame, 
and  still  addressed  me  in  friendly  accents.  Beware,  lest 
thy  Friend  learn  at  last  to  tolerate  one  frailty  of  thine, 
and  so  an  obstacle  be  raised  to  the  progress  of  thy  love. 
There  are  times  when  we  have  had  enough  even  of  our 
Friends,  when  we  begin  inevitably  to  profane  one  an 
other,  and  must  withdraw  religiously  into  solitude  and 
silence,  the  better  to  prepare  ourselves  for  a  loftier 
intimacy.  Silence  is  the  ambrosial  night  in  the  inter 
course  of  Friends,  in  which  their  sincerity  is  recruited 
and  takes  deeper  root. 


WEDNESDAY  289 

Friendship  is  never  established  as  an  understood 
relation.  Do  you  demand  that  I  be  less  your  Friend 
that  you  may  know  it  ?  Yet  what  right  have  I  to  think 
that  another  cherishes  so  rare  a  sentiment  for  me  ?  It  is 
a  miracle  which  requires  constant  proofs.  It  is  an  exer 
cise  of  the  purest  imagination  and  the  rarest  faith.  It 
says  by  a  silent  but  eloquent  behavior,  "  I  will  be  so 
related  to  thee  as  thou  canst  imagine ;  even  so  thou 
mayest  believe.  I  will  spend  truth,  —  all  my  wealth  on 
thee,"  —  and  the  Friend  responds  silently  through  his 
nature  and  life,  and  treats  his  Friend  with  the  same 
divine  courtesy.  He  knows  us  literally  through  thick 
and  thin.  He  never  asks  for  a  sign  of  love,  but  can  dis 
tinguish  it  by  the  features  which  it  naturally  wears. 
We  never  need  to  stand  upon  ceremony  with  him  with 
regard  to  his  visits.  Wait  not  till  I  invite  thee,  but  ob 
serve  that  I  am  glad  to  see  thee  when  thou  comest.  It 
would  be  paying  too  dear  for  thy  visit  to  ask  for  it.  Where 
my  Friend  lives  there  are  all  riches  and  every  attraction, 
and  no  slight  obstacle  can  keep  me  from  him.  Let  me 
never  have  to  tell  thee  what  I  have  not  to  tell.  Let  our 
intercourse  be  wholly  above  ourselves,  and  draw  us  up 
to  it. 

The  language  of  Friendship  is  not  words,  but  mean 
ings.  It  is  an  intelligence  above  language.  One  imagines 
endless  conversations  with  his  Friend,  in  which  the 
tongue  shall  be  loosed,  and  thoughts  be  spoken  without 
hesitancy  or  end;  but  the  experience  is  commonly  far 
otherwise.  Acquaintances  may  come  and  go,  and  have 
a  word  ready  for  every  occasion;  but  what  puny  word 
shall  he  utter  whose  very  breath  is  thought  and  meaning  ? 


290  A  WEEK 

Suppose  you  go  to  bid  farewell  to  your  Friend  who  is 
setting  out  on  a  journey;  what  other  outward  sign  do 
you  know  than  to  shake  his  hand  ?  Have  you  any  palaver 
ready  for  him  then  ?  any  box  of  salve  to  commit  to  his 
pocket  ?  any  particular  message  to  send  by  him  ?  any 
statement  which  you  had  forgotten  to  make  ?  —  as  if 
you  could  forget  anything.  No,  it  is  much  that  you  take 
his  hand  and  say  Farewell;  that  you  could  easily  omit; 
so  far  custom  has  prevailed.  It  is  even  painful,  if  he  is  to 
go,  that  he  should  linger  so  long.  If  he  must  go,  let  him 
go  quickly.  Have  you  any  last  words  ?  Alas,  it  is  only 
the  word  of  words,  which  you  have  so  long  sought  and 
found  not;  you  have  not  a  first  word  yet.  There  are  few 
even  whom  I  should  venture  to  call  earnestly  by  their 
most  proper  names.  A  name  pronounced  is  the  recog 
nition  of  the  individual  to  whom  it  belongs.  He  who 
can  pronounce  my  name  aright,  he  can  call  me,  and  is 
entitled  to  my  love  and  service.  Yet  reserve  is  the  free 
dom  and  abandonment  of  lovers.  It  is  the  reserve  of 
what  is  hostile  or  indifferent  in  their  natures,  to  give 
place  to  what  is  kindred  and  harmonious. 

The  violence  of  love  is  as  much  to  be  dreaded  as  that 
of  hate.  When  it  is  durable  it  is  serene  and  equable. 
Even  its  famous  pains  begin  only  with  the  ebb  of  love, 
for  few  are  indeed  lovers,  though  all  would  fain  be.  It 
is  one  proof  of  a  man's  fitness  for  Friendship  that  he  is 
able  to  do  without  that  which  is  cheap  and  passionate. 
A  true  Friendship  is  as  wise  as  it  is  tender.  The  parties 
to  it  yield  implicitly  to  the  guidance  of  their  love,  and 
know  no  other  law  nor  kindness.  It  is  not  extravagant 
and  insane,  but  what  it  says  is  something  established 


WEDNESDAY  291 

henceforth,  and  will  bear  to  be  stereotyped.  It  is  a  truer 
truth,  it  is  better  and  fairer  news,  and  no  time  will  ever 
shame  it,  or  prove  it  false.  This  is  a  plant  which  thrives 
best  in  a  temperate  zone,  where  summer  and  winter 
alternate  with  one  another.  The  Friend  is  a  necessarius, 
and  meets  his  Friend  on  homely  ground ;  not  on  carpets 
and  cushions,  but  on  the  ground  and  on  rocks  they  will 
sit,  obeying  the  natural  and  primitive  laws.  They  will 
meet  without  any  outcry,  and  part  without  loud  sorrow. 
Their  relation  implies  such  qualities  as  the  warrior 
prizes ;  for  it  takes  a  valor  to  open  the  hearts  of  men  as 
well  as  the  gates  of  castles.  It  is  not  an  idle  sympathy 
and  mutual  consolation  merely,  but  a  heroic  sympathy 
of  aspiration  and  endeavor. 

"When  manhood  shall  be  matched  so 

That  fear  can  take  no  place, 
Then  weary  works  make  warriors 
Each  other  to  embrace." 

The  Friendship  which  Wawatam  testified  for  Henry 
the  fur-trader,  as  described  in  the  latter's  "Adventures," 
so  almost  bare  and  leafless,  yet  not  blossomless  nor  fruit 
less,  is  remembered  with  satisfaction  and  security.  The 
stern,  imperturbable  warrior,  after  fasting,  solitude,  and 
mortification  of  body,  comes  to  the  white  man's  lodge, 
and  affirms  that  he  is  the  white  brother  whom  he  saw  in 
his  dream,  and  adopts  him  henceforth.  He  buries  the 
hatchet  as  it  regards  his  friend,  and  they  hunt  and  feast 
and  make  maple-sugar  together.  "Metals  unite  from 
fluxility;  birds  and  beasts  from  motives  of  convenience; 
fools  from  fear  and  stupidity;  and  just  men  at  sight." 
If  Wawatam  would  taste  the  "  white  man's  milk  "  with 


292  A  WEEK 

his  tribe,  or  take  his  bowl  of  human  broth  made  of  the 
trader's  fellow-countrymen,  he  first  finds  a  place  of  safety 
for  his  Friend,  whom  he  has  rescued  from  a  similar  fate. 
At  length,  after  a  long  winter  of  undisturbed  and  happy 
intercourse  in  the  family  of  the  chieftain  in  the  wilder 
ness,  hunting  and  fishing,  they  return  in  the  spring  to 
Michilimackinac  to  dispose  of  their  furs ;  and  it  becomes 
necessary  for  Wawatam  to  take  leave  of  his  Friend  at  the 
Isle  aux  Outardes,  when  the  latter,  to  avoid  his  enemies, 
proceeded  to  the  Sault  de  Sainte  Marie,  supposing  that 
^hey  were  to  be  separated  for  a  short  time  only.  "  We 
now  exchanged  farewells,"  says  Henry,  "with  an  emo 
tion  entirely  reciprocal.  I  did  not  quit  the  lodge  without 
the  most  grateful  sense  of  the  many  acts  of  goodness 
which  I  had  experienced  in  it,  nor  without  the  sincerest 
respect  for  the  virtues  which  I  had  witnessed  among  its 
members.  All  the  family  accompanied  me  to  the  beach; 
and  the  canoe  had  no  sooner  put  off  than  Wawatam 
commenced  an  address  to  the  Kichi  Manito,  beseeching 
him  to  take  care  of  me,  his  brother,  till  we  should  next 
meet.  We  had  proceeded  to  too  great  a  distance  to  allow 
of  our  hearing  his  voice,  before  Wawatam  had  ceased  to 
offer  up  his  prayers."  We  never  hear  of  him  again. 

Friendship  is  not  so  kind  as  is  imagined;  it  has  not 
much  human  blood  in  it,  but  consists  with  a  certain 
disregard  for  men  and  their  erections,  the  Christian 
duties  and  humanities,  while  it  purifies  the  air  like 
electricity.  There  may  be  the  sternest  tragedy  in  the 
relation  of  two  more  than  usually  innocent  and  true  to 
their  highest  instincts.  We  may  call  it  an  essentially 
heathenish  intercourse,  free  and  irresponsible  in  its 


WEDNESDAY  293 

nature,  and  practicing  all  the  virtues  gratuitously.  It  is 
not  the  highest  sympathy  merely,  but  a  pure  and  lofty 
society,  a  fragmentary  and  godlike  intercourse  of  ancient 
date,  still  kept  up  at  intervals,  which,  remembering 
itself,  does  not  hesitate  to  disregard  the  humbler  rights 
and  duties  of  humanity.  It  requires  immaculate  and 
godlike  qualities  full-grown,  and  exists  at  all  only  by 
condescension  and  anticipation  of  the  remotest  future. 
We  love  nothing  which  is  merely  good  and  not  fair, 
if  such  a  thing  is  possible.  Nature  puts  some  kind  of 
blossom  before  every  fruit,  not  simply  a  calyx  behind  it. 
When  the  Friend  comes  out  of  his  heathenism  and 
superstition,  and  breaks  his  idols,  being  converted  by 
the  precepts  of  a  newer  testament;  when  he  forgets  his 
mythology,  and  treats  his  Friend  like  a  Christian,  or  as 
he  can  afford, — then  Friendship  ceases  to  be  Friendship, 
and  becomes  charity;  that  principle  which  established 
the  almshouse  is  now  beginning  with  its  charity  at  home, 
and  establishing  an  almshouse  and  pauper  relations 
there. 

As  for  the  number  which  this  society  admits,  it  is  at 
any  rate  to  be  begun  with  one,  the  noblest  and  greatest 
that  we  know,  and  whether  the  world  will  ever  carry  it 
further, — whether,  as  Chaucer  affirms,  — 

"There  be  mo  sterres  in  the  skie  than  a  pair," 
remains  to  be  proved;  — 

"And  certaine  he  is  well  begone 
Among  a  thousand  that  findeth  one." 

We  shall  not  surrender  ourselves  heartily  to  any  while 


294  A  WEEK 

we  are  conscious  that  another  is  more  deserving  of  our 
love.  Yet  Friendship  does  not  stand  for  numbers;  the 
Friend  does  not  count  his  Friends  on  his  fingers;  they 
are  not  numerable.  The  more  there  are  included  by  this 
bond,  if  they  are  indeed  included,  the  rarer  and  diviner 
the  quality  of  the  love  that  binds  them.  I  am  ready  to 
believe  that  as  private  and  intimate  a  relation  may  exist 
by  which  three  are  embraced,  as  between  two.  Indeed, 
we  cannot  have  too  many  friends;  the  virtue  which  we 
appreciate  we  to  some  extent  appropriate,  so  that  thus 
we  are  made  at  last  more  fit  for  every  relation  of  life.  A 
base  Friendship  is  of  a  narrowing  and  exclusive  ten 
dency,  but  a  noble  one  is  not  exclusive;  its  very  super 
fluity  and  dispersed  love  is  the  humanity  which  sweetens 
society,  and  sympathizes  with  foreign  nations;  for 
though  its  foundations  are  private,  it  is,  in  effect,  a  pub 
lic  affair  and  a  public  advantage,  and  the  Friend,  more 
than  the  father  of  a  family,  deserves  well  of  the  state. 

The  only  danger  in  Friendship  is  that  it  will  end.  It 
is  a  delicate  plant,  though  a  native.  The  least  unworthi- 
ness,  even  if  it  be  unknown  to  one's  self,  vitiates  it.  Let 
the  Friend  know  that  those  faults  which  he  observes  in 
his  Friend  his  own  faults  attract.  There  is  no  rule  more 
invariable  than  that  we  are  paid  for  our  suspicions  by 
finding  what  we  suspected.  By  our  narrowness  and 
prejudices  we  say,  I  will  have  so  much  and  such  of  you, 
my  Friend,  no  more.  Perhaps  there  are  none  charitable, 
none  disinterested,  none  wise,  noble,  and  heroic  enough, 
for  a  true  and  lasting  Friendship. 

I  sometimes  hear  my  Friends  complain  finely  that 
I  do  not  appreciate  their  fineness.  I  shall  not  tell  them 


WEDNESDAY  295 

whether  I  do  or  not.  As  if  they  expected  a  vote  of  thanks 
for  every  fine  thing  which  they  uttered  or  did.  Who 
knows  but  it  was  finely  appreciated  ?  It  may  be  that  your 
silence  was  the  finest  thing  of  the  two.  There  are  some 
things  which  a  man  never  speaks  of,  which  are  much 
finer  kept  silent  about.  To  the  highest  communications 
we  only  lend  a  silent  ear.  Our  finest  relations  are  not 
simply  kept  silent  about,  but  buried  under  a  positive 
depth  of  silence  never  to  be  revealed.  It  may  be  that 
we  are  not  even  yet  acquainted.  In  human  intercourse 
the  tragedy  begins,  not  when  there  is  misunderstanding 
about  words,  but  when  silence  is  not  understood.  Then 
there  can  never  be  an  explanation.  What  avails  it  that 
another  loves  you,  if  he  does  not  understand  you  ?  Such 
love  is  a  curse.  What  sort  of  companions  are  they  who 
are  presuming  always  that  their  silence  is  more  expres 
sive  than  yours  ?  How  foolish,  and  inconsiderate,  and 
unjust,  to  conduct  as  if  you  were  the  only  party  ag 
grieved!  Has  not  your  Friend  always  equal  ground  of 
complaint  ?  No  doubt  my  Friends  sometimes  speak  to 
me  in  vain,  but  they  do  not  know  what  things  I  hear 
which  they  are  not  aware  that  they  have  spoken.  I  know 
that  I  have  frequently  disappointed  them  by  not  giving 
them  words  when  they  expected  them,  or  such  as  they 
expected.  Whenever  I  see  my  Friend  I  speak  to  him; 
but  the  expecter,  the  man  with  the  ears,  is  not  he.  They 
will  complain  too  that  you  are  hard.  O  ye  that  would 
have  the  cocoanut  wrong  side  outwards,  when  next  I 
weep  I  will  let  you  know.  They  ask  for  words  and  deeds, 
when  a  true  relation  is  word  and  deed.  If  they  know  not 
of  these  things,  how  can  they  be  informed  ?  We  often 


A  WEEK 

forbear  to  confess  our  feelings,  not  from  pride,  but  for 
fear  that  we  could  not  continue  to  love  the  one  who 
required  us  to  give  such  proof  of  our  affection. 

I  know  a  woman  who  possesses  a  restless  and  intel 
ligent  mind,  interested  in  her  own  culture,  and  earnest 
to  enjoy  the  highest  possible  advantages,  and  I  meet  her 
with  pleasure  as  a  natural  person  who  not  a  little  pro 
vokes  me,  and  I  suppose  is  stimulated  in  turn  by  my 
self.  Yet  our  acquaintance  plainly  does  not  attain  to 
that  degree  of  confidence  and  sentiment  which  women, 
which  all,  in  fact,  covet.  I  am  glad  to  help  her,  as  I  am 
helped  by  her;  I  like  very  well  to  know  her  with  a  sort 
of  stranger's  privilege,  and  hesitate  to  visit  her  often, 
like  her  other  Friends.  My  nature  pauses  here,  I  do  not 
well  know  why.  Perhaps  she  does  not  make  the  highest 
demand  on  me,  a  religious  demand.  Some,  with  whose 
prejudices  or  peculiar  bias  I  have  no  sympathy,  yet 
inspire  me  with  confidence,  and  I  trust  that  they  confide 
in  me  also  as  a  religious  heathen  at  least,  —  a  good 
Greek.  I,  too,  have  principles  as  well  founded  as  their 
own.  If  this  person  could  conceive  that,  without  will 
fulness,  I  associate  with  her  as  far  as  our  destinies  are 
coincident,  as  far  as  our  Good  Geniuses  permit,  and  still 
value  such  intercourse,  it  would  be  a  grateful  assurance 
to  me.  I  feel  as  if  I  appeared  careless,  indifferent,  and 
without  principle  to  her,  not  expecting  more,  and  yet  not 
content  with  less.  If  she  could  know  that  I  make  an 
infinite  demand  on  myself,  as  well  as  on  all  others,  she 
would  see  that  this  true  though  incomplete  intercourse 
is  infinitely  better  than  a  more  unreserved  but  falsely 


WEDNESDAY  297 

grounded  one,  without  the  principle  of  growth  in  it.  For 
a  companion,  I  require  one  who  will  make  an  equal 
demand  on  me  with  my  own  genius.  Such  a  one  will 
always  be  rightly  tolerant.  It  is  suicide,  and  corrupts 
good  manners,  to  welcome  any  less  than  this.  I  value 
and  trust  those  who  love  and  praise  my  aspiration  rather 
than  my  performance.  If  you  would  not  stop  to  look  at 
me,  but  look  whither  I  am  looking,  and  farther,  then  my 
education  could  not  dispense  with  your  company. 

My  love  must  be  as  free 

As  is  tbe  eagle's  wing, 
Hovering  o'er  land  and  sea 

And  everything. 

I  must  not  dim  my  eye 

In  thy  saloon, 
I  must  not  leave  my  sky 

And  nightly  moon. 

Be  not  the  fowler's  net 

Which  stays  my  flight, 
And  craftily  is  set 

T  allure  the  sight. 

But  be  the  favoring  gale 

That  bears  me  on, 
And  still  doth  fill  my  sail 

When  thou  art  gone. 

I  cannot  leave  my  sky 

For  thy  caprice, 
True  love  would  soar  as  high 

As  heaven  is. 

The  eagle  would  not  brook 

Her  mate  thus  won, 
Who  trained  his  eye  to  look 

Beneath  the  sun. 


298  A  WEEK 

Few  things  are  more  difficult  than  to  help  a  Friend 
in  matters  which  do  not  require  the  aid  of  Friendship, 
but  only  a  cheap  and  trivial  service,  if  your  Friendship 
wants  the  basis  of  a  thorough  practical  acquaintance. 
I  stand  in  the  friendliest  relation,  on  social  and  spiritual 
grounds,  to  one  who  does  not  perceive  what  practical 
skill  I  have,  but  when  he  seeks  my  assistance  in  such 
matters,  is  wholly  ignorant  of  that  one  with  whom  he 
deals;  does  not  use  my  skill,  which  in  such  matters  is 
much  greater  than  his,  but  only  my  hands.  I  know 
another,  who,  on  the  contrary,  is  remarkable  for  his 
discrimination  in  this  respect;  who  knows  how  to  make 
use  of  the  talents  of  others  when  he  does  not  possess  the 
same;  knows  when  not  to  look  after  or  oversee,  and 
stops  short  at  his  man.  It  is  a  rare  pleasure  to  serve  him, 
which  all  laborers  know.  I  am  not  a  little  pained  by  the 
other  kind  of  treatment.  It  is  as  if,  after  the  friendliest 
and  most  ennobling  intercourse,  your  Friend  should  use 
you  as  a  hammer,  and  drive  a  nail  with  your  head,  all 
in  good  faith;  notwithstanding  that  you  are  a  tolerable 
carpenter,  as  well  as  his  good  Friend,  and  would  use  a 
hammer  cheerfully  in  his  service.  This  want  of  percep 
tion  is  a  defect  which  all  the  virtues  of  the  heart  cannot 
supply :  — 

The  Good  how  can  we  trust  ? 
Only  the  Wise  are  just. 
The  Good  we  use, 
The  Wise  we  cannot  choose. 
These  there  are  none  above; 
The  Good  they  know  and  love, 
But  are  not  known  again 
By  those  of  lesser  ken. 


WEDNESDAY  299 

They  do  not  charm  us  with  their  eyes, 
But  they  transfix  with  their  advice; 
No  partial  sympathy  they  feel, 
With  private  woe  or  private  weal, 
But  with  the  universe  joy  and  sigh, 
Whose  knowledge  is  their  sympathy. 

Confucius  said :  "  To  contract  ties  of  Friendship  with 
any  one  is  to  contract  Friendship  with  his  virtue.  There 
ought  not  to  be  any  other  motive  in  Friendship."  But 
men  wish  us  to  contract  Friendship  with  their  vice  also. 
I  have  a  Friend  who  wishes  me  to  see  that  to  be  right 
which  I  know  to  be  wrong.  But  if  Friendship  is  to  rob 
me  of  my  eyes,  if  it  is  to  darken  the  day,  I  will  have  none 
of  it.  It  should  be  expansive  and  inconceivably  liberaliz 
ing  in  its  effects.  True  Friendship  can  afford  true  know 
ledge.  It  does  not  depend  on  darkness  and  ignorance. 
A  want  of  discernment  cannot  be  an  ingredient  in  it. 
If  I  can  see  my  Friend's  virtues  more  distinctly  than 
another's,  his  faults  too  are  made  more  conspicuous  by 
contrast.  We  have  not  so  good  a  right  to  hate  any  as  our 
Friend.  Faults  are  not  the  less  faults  because  they  are 
invariably  balanced  by  corresponding  virtues,  and  for 
a  fault  there  is  no  excuse,  though  it  may  appear  greater 
than  it  is  in  many  ways.  I  have  never  known  one  who 
could  bear  criticism,  who  could  not  be  flattered,  who 
would  not  bribe  his  judge,  or  was  content  that  the  truth 
should  be  loved  always  better  than  himself. 

If  two  travelers  would  go  their  way  harmoniously 
together,  the  one  must  take  as  true  and  just  a  view  of 
things  as  the  other,  else  their  path  will  not  be  strewn  with 
roses.  Yet  you  can  travel  profitably  and  pleasantly  even 
with  a  blind  man,  if  he  practices  common  courtesy,  and 


300  A  WEEK 

when  you  converse  about  the  scenery  will  remember 
that  he  is  blind  but  that  you  can  see;  and  you  will  not 
forget  that  his  sense  of  hearing  is  probably  quickened 
by  his  want  of  sight.  Otherwise  you  will  not  long  keep 
company.  A  blind  man  and  a  man  in  whose  eyes  there 
was  no  defect  were  walking  together,  when  they  came 
to  the  edge  of  a  precipice.  "  Take  care,  my  friend,"  said 
the  latter,  "here  is  a  steep  precipice;  go  no  farther  this 
way."  "  I  know  better,"  said  the  other,  and  stepped  off. 

It  is  impossible  to  say  all  that  we  think,  even  to  our 
truest  Friend.  We  may  bid  him  farewell  forever  sooner 
than  complain,  for  our  complaint  is  too  well  grounded 
to  be  uttered.  There  is  not  so  good  an  understanding 
between  any  two,  but  the  exposure  by  the  one  of  a  seri 
ous  fault  in  the  other  will  produce  a  misunderstanding 
in  proportion  to  its  heinousness.  The  constitutional 
differences  which  always  exist,  and  are  obstacles  to  a 
perfect  Friendship,  are  forever  a  forbidden  theme  to  the 
lips  of  Friends.  They  advise  by  their  whole  behavior. 
Nothing  can  reconcile  them  but  love.  They  are  fatally 
late  when  they  undertake  to  explain  and  treat  with 
one  another  like  foes.  Who  will  take  an  apology  for  a 
Friend  ?  They  must  apologize  like  dew  and  frost,  which 
are  off  again  with  the  sun,  and  which  all  men  know  in 
their  hearts  to  be  beneficent.  The  necessity  itself  for 
explanation,  —  what  explanation  will  atone  for  that  ? 

True  love  does  not  quarrel  for  slight  reasons,  such 
mistakes  as  mutual  acquaintances  can  explain  away, 
but,  alas,  however  slight  the  apparent  cause,  only  for 
adequate  and  fatal  and  everlasting  reasons,  which  can 
never  be  set  aside.  Its  quarrel,  if  there  is  any,  is  ever 


WEDNESDAY  301 

recurring,  notwithstanding  the  beams  of  affection  which 
invariably  come  to  gild  its  tears;  as  the  rainbow,  how 
ever  beautiful  and  unerring  a  sign,  does  not  promise  fair 
weather  forever,  but  only  for  a  season.  I  have  known 
two  or  three  persons  pretty  well,  and  yet  I  have  never 
known  advice  to  be  of  use  but  in  trivial  and  transient 
matters.  One  may  know  what  another  does  not,  but 
the  utmost  kindness  cannot  impart  what  is  requisite  to 
make  the  advice  useful.  We  must  accept  or  refuse  one 
another  as  we  are.  I  could  tame  a  hyena  more  easily 
than  my  Friend.  He  is  a  material  which  'no  tool  of 
mine  will  work.  A  naked  savage  will  fell  an  oak  with 
a  firebrand,  and  wear  a  hatchet  out  of  a  rock  by  fric 
tion,  but  I  cannot  hew  the  smallest  chip  out  of  the 
character  of  my  Friend,  either  to  beautify  or  deform  it. 
The  lover  learns  at  last  that  there  is  no  person  quite 
transparent  and  trustworthy,  but  every  one  has  a  devil 
in  him  that  is  capable  of  any  crime  in  the  long  run.  Yet, 
as  an  Oriental  philosopher  has  said,  "  Although  Friend 
ship  between  good  men  is  interrupted,  their  principles 
remain  unaltered.  The  stalk  of  the  lotus  may  be  broken, 
and  the  fibres  remain  connected." 

Ignorance  and  bungling  with  love  are  better  than 
wisdom  and  skill  without.  There  may  be  courtesy,  there 
may  be  even  temper,  and  wit,  and  talent,  and  sparkling 
conversation,  there  may  be  good-will  even,  —  and  yet 
the  humanest  and  divinest  faculties  pine  for  exercise. 
Our  life  without  love  is  like  coke  and  ashes.  Men  may 
be  pure  as  alabaster  and  Parian  marble,  elegant  as  a 
Tuscan  villa,  sublime  as  Niagara,  and  yet  if  there  is  no 


302  A  WEEK 

milk  mingled  with  the  wine  at  their  entertainments, 
better  is  the  hospitality  of  Goths  and  Vandals. 

My  Friend  is  not  of  some  other  race  or  family  of  men, 
but  flesh  of  my  flesh,  bone  of  my  bone.  He  is  my  real 
brother.  I  see  his  nature  groping  yonder  so  like  mine. 
We  do  not  live  far  apart.  Have  not  the  fates  associated 
us  in  many  ways  ?  It  says,  in  the  Vishnu  Purana,  "  Seven 
paces  together  is  sufficient  for  the  friendship  of  the  virtu 
ous,  but  thou  and  I  have  dwelt  together."  Is  it  of  no 
significance  that  we  have  so  long  partaken  of  the  same 
loaf,  drank  at  the  same  fountain,  breathed  the  same  air 
summer  and  winter,  felt  the  same  heat  and  cold;  that 
the  same  fruits  have  been  pleased  to  refresh  us  both, 
and  we  have  never  had  a  thought  of  different  fibre  the 
one  from  the  other? 

Nature  doth  have  her  dawn  each  day, 

But  mine  are  far  between; 
Content,  I  cry,  for,  sooth  to  say, 

Mine  brightest  are,  I  ween. 

For  when  my  sun  doth  deign  to  rise, 

Though  it  be  her  noontide, 
Her  fairest  field  in  shadow  lies 

Nor  can  my  light  abide. 

Sometimes  I  bask  me  in  her  day, 

Conversing  with  my  mate, 
But  if  we  interchange  one  ray, 

Forthwith  her  heats  abate. 

Through  his  discourse  I  climb  and  see, 

As  from  some  eastern  hill, 
A  brighter  morrow  rise  to  me 

Than  lieth  in  her  skill. 


WEDNESDAY  303 

As't  were  two  summer  days  in  one, 

Two  Sundays  come  together, 
Our  rays  united  make  one  sun, 

With  fairest  summer  weather. 

As  surely  as  the  sunset  in  my  latest  November  shall 
translate  me  to  the  ethereal  world,  and  remind  me  of 
the  ruddy  morning  of  youth;  as  surely  as  the  last  strain 
of  music  which  falls  on  my  decaying  ear  shall  make  age 
to  be  forgotten,  or,  in  short,  the  manifold  influences  of 
nature  survive  during  the  term  of  our  natural  life,  so 
surely  my  Friend  shall  forever  be  my  Friend,  and  reflect 
a  ray  of  God  to  me,  and  time  shall  foster  and  adorn  and 
consecrate  our  Friendship,  no  less  than  the  ruins  of 
temples.  As  I  love  nature,  as  I  love  singing  birds,  and 
gleaming  stubble,  and  flowing  rivers,  and  morning  and 
evening,  and  summer  and  winter,  I  love  thee,  my  Friend. 

But  all  that  can  be  said  of  Friendship  is  like  botany 
to  flowers.  How  can  the  understanding  take  account  of 
its  friendliness  ? 

Even  the  death  of  Friends  will  inspire  us  as  much  as 
their  lives.  They  will  leave  consolation  to  the  mourners, 
as  the  rich  leave  money  to  defray  the  expenses  of  their 
funerals,  and  their  memories  will  be  incrusted  over  with 
sublime  and  pleasing  thoughts,  as  monuments  of  other 
men  are  overgrown  with  moss;  for  our  Friends  have  no 
place  in  the  graveyard. 

This  to  our  cis- Alpine  and  cis-Atlantic  Friends. 

Also  this  other  word  of  entreaty  and  advice  to  the 
large  and  respectable  nation  of  Acquaintances,  beyond 
the  mountains;  —  Greeting. 


304  A  WEEK 

My  most  serene  and  irresponsible  neighbors,  let  us 
see  that  we  have  the  whole  advantage  of  each  other; 
we  will  be  useful,  at  least,  if  not  admirable,  to  one  an 
other.  I  know  that  the  mountains  which  separate  us 
are  high,  and  covered  with  perpetual  snow,  but  despair 
not.  Improve  the  serene  winter  weather  to  scale  them. 
If  need  be,  soften  the  rocks  with  vinegar.  For  here  lie 
the  verdant  plains  of  Italy  ready  to  receive  you.  Nor 
shall  I  be  slow  on  my  side  to  penetrate  to  your  Provence. 
Strike  then  boldly  at  head  or  heart  or  any  vital  part. 
Depend  upon  it,  the  timber  is  well  seasoned  and  tough, 
and  will  bear  rough  usage;  and  if  it  should  crack,  there 
is  plenty  more  where  it  came  from.  I  am  no  piece  of 
crockery  that  cannot  be  jostled  against  my  neighbor 
without  danger  of  being  broken  by  the  collision,  and 
must  needs  ring  false  and  jarringly  to  the  end  of  my 
days,  when  once  I  am  cracked;  but  rather  one  of  the 
old-fashioned  wooden  trenchers,  which  one  while  stands 
at  the  head  of  the  table,  and  at  another  is  a  milking- 
stool,  and  at  another  a  seat  for  children,  and  finally  goes 
down  to  its  grave  not  unadorned  with  honorable  scars, 
and  does  not  die  till  it  is  worn  out.  Nothing  can  shock  a 
brave  man  but  dullness.  Think  how  many  rebuffs  every 
man  has  experienced  in  his  day;  perhaps  has  fallen  into 
a  horse-pond,  eaten  fresh-water  clams,  or  worn  one  shirt 
for  a  week  without  washing.  Indeed,  you  cannot  receive 
a  shock  unless  you  have  an  electric  affinity  for  that  which 
shocks  you.  Use  me,  then,  for  I  am  useful  in  my  way, 
and  stand  as  one  of  many  petitioners,  from  toadstool  and 
henbane  up  to  dahlia  and  violet,  supplicating  to  be  put 
to  my  use,  if  by  any  means  ye  may  find  me  serviceable : 


WEDNESDAY  305 

whether  for  a  medicated  drink  or  bath,  as  balm  and 
lavender;  or  for  fragrance,  as  verbena  and  geranium; 
or  for  sight,  as  cactus ;  or  for  thoughts,  as  pansy.  These 
humbler,  at  least,  if  not  those  higher  uses. 

Ah,  my  dear  Strangers  and  Enemies,  I  would  not  for 
get  you.  I  can  well  afford  to  welcome  you.  Let  me 
subscribe  myself  Yours  ever  and  truly,  —  your  much 
obliged  servant.  We  have  nothing  to  fear  from  our  foes; 
God  keeps  a  standing  army  for  that  service;  but  we  have 
no  ally  against  our  Friends,  those  ruthless  Vandals. 

Once  more  to  one  and  all,  — 

"Friends,  Romans,  Countrymen,  and  Lovers." 

Let  such  pure  hate  still  underprop 
Our  love,  that  we  may  be 
Each  other's  conscience, 
And  have  our  sympathy 
Mainly  from  thence. 

We  '11  one  another  treat  like  gods, 
And  all  the  faith  we  have 
In  virtue  and  in  truth,  bestow 
On  either,  and  suspicion  leave 
To  gods  below. 

Two  solitary  stars,  — 
Unmeasured  systems  far 
Between  us  roll, 

But  by  our  conscious  light  we  are 
Determined  to  one  pole. 

What  need  confound  the  sphere  ?  — 
Love  can  afford  to  wait, 
For  it  no  hour  's  too  late 
That  witnesseth  one  duty's  end, 
Or  to  another  doth  beginning  lend. 


306  A  WEEK 

It  will  subserve  no  use, 
More  than  the  tints  of  flowers, 
Only  the  independent  guest 
Frequents  its  bowers, 
Inherits  its  bequest. 

No  speech  though  kind  has  it, 
But  kinder  silence  doles 
Unto  its  mates, 
By  night  consoles, 
By  day  congratulates. 

What  saith  the  tongue  to  tongue? 
What  heareth  ear  of  ear  ? 
By  the  decrees  of  fate 
From  year  to  year, 
Does  it  communicate. 

Pathless  the  gulf  of  feeling  yawns,  — 
No  trivial  bridge  of  words, 
Or  arch  of  boldest  span, 
Can  leap  the  moat  that  girds 
The  sincere  man. 

No  show  of  bolts  and  bars 
Can  keep  the  foeman  out, 
Or  'scape  his  secret  mine 
Who  entered  with  the  doubt 
That  drew  the  line. 

No  warder  at  the  gate 
Can  let  the  friendly  in, 
But,  like  the  sun,  o'er  all 
He  will  the  castle  win, 
And  shine  along  the  wall. 

There 's  nothing  in  the  world  I  know 
That  can  escape  from  love, 
For  every  depth  it  goes  below, 
And  every  height  above. 


WEDNESDAY  307 

It  waits  as  waits  the  sky, 
Until  the  clouds  go  by, 
Yet  shines  serenely  on 
With  an  eternal  day, 
Alike  when  they  are  gone, 
And  when  they  stay. 

Implacable  is  Love,  — 
Foes  may  be  bought  or  teased 
From  their  hostile  intent, 
But  he  goes  unappeased 
Who  is  on  kindness  bent. 

Having  rowed  five  or  six  miles  above  Amoskeag 
before  sunset,  and  reached  a  pleasant  part  of  the  river, 
one  of  us  landed  to  look  for  a  farmhouse,  where  we  might 
replenish  our  stores,  while  the  other  remained  cruising 
about  the  stream,  and  exploring  the  opposite  shores  to 
find  a  suitable  harbor  for  the  night.  In  the  mean  while 
the  canal-boats  began  to  come  round  a  point  in  our  rear, 
poling  their  way  along  close  to  the  shore,  the  breeze 
having  quite  died  away.  This  time  there  was  no  offer  of 
assistance,  but  one  of  the  boatmen  only  called  out  to  say 
as  the  truest  revenge  for  having  been  the  losers  in  the 
race,  that  he  had  seen  a  wood  duck,  which  we  had  scared 
up,  sitting  on  a  tall,  white  pine,  half  a  mile  down-stream; 
and  he  repeated  the  assertion  several  times,  and  seemed 
really  chagrined  at  the  apparent  suspicion  with  which 
this  information  was  received.  But  there  sat  the  summer 
duck  still,  undisturbed  by  us. 

By  and  by  the  other  voyageur  returned  from  his  in 
land  expedition,  bringing  one  of  the  natives  with  him, 
a  little  flaxen-headed  boy,  with  some  tradition,  or  small 
edition,  of  Robinson  Crusoe  in  his  head,  who  had  been 


308  A  WEEK 

charmed  by  the  account  of  our  adventures,  and  asked 
his  father's  leave  to  join  us.  He  examined,  at  first  from 
the  top  of  the  bank,  our  boat  and  furniture,  with  spark 
ling  eyes,  and  wished  himself  already  his  own  man.  He 
was  a  lively  and  interesting  boy,  and  we  should  have 
been  glad  to  ship  him;  but  Nathan  was  still  his  father's 
boy,  and  had  not  come  to  years  of  discretion. 

We  had  got  a  loaf  of  home-made  bread,  and  musk  and 
water  melons  for  dessert.  For  this  farmer,  a  clever  and 
well-disposed  man,  cultivated  a  large  patch  of  melons 
for  the  Hooksett  and  Concord  markets.  He  hospitably 
entertained  us  the  next  day,  exhibiting  his  hop-fields  and 
kiln  and  melon-patch,  warning  us  to  step  over  the  tight 
rope  which  surrounded  the  latter  at  a  foot  from  the 
ground,  while  he  pointed  to  a  little  bower  at  one  corner, 
where  it  connected  with  the  lock  of  a  gun  ranging  with 
the  line,  and  where,  as  he  informed  us,  he  sometimes 
sat  in  pleasant  nights  to  defend  his  premises  against 
thieves.  We  stepped  high  over  the  line,  and  sympathized 
with  our  host's  on  the  whole  quite  human,  if  not  humane, 
interest  in  the  success  of  his  experiment.  That  night 
especially  thieves  were  to  be  expected,  from  rumors  in 
the  atmosphere,  and  the  priming  was  not  wet.  He  was  a 
Methodist  man,  who  had  his  dwelling  between  the  river 
and  Uncannunuc  Mountain;  who  there  belonged,  and 
stayed  at  home  there,  and  by  the  encouragement  of 
distant  political  organizations,  and  by  his  own  tenacity, 
held  a  property  in  his  melons,  and  continued  to  plant. 
We  suggested  melon  seeds  of  new  varieties  and  fruit  of 
foreign  flavor  to  be  added  to  his  stock.  We  had  come 
away  up  here  among  the  hills  to  learn  the  impartial  and 


WEDNESDAY  309 

unbribable  beneficence  of  Nature.  Strawberries  and 
melons  grow  as  well  in  one  man's  garden  as  another's, 
and  the  sun  lodges  as  kindly  under  his  hillside,  —  when 
we  had  imagined  that  she  inclined  rather  to  some  few 
earnest  and  faithful  souls  whom  we  know. 

We  found  a  convenient  harbor  for  our  boat  on  the 
opposite  or  east  shore,  still  in  Hooksett,  at  the  mouth 
of  a  small  brook  which  emptied  into  the  Merrimack, 
where  it  would  be  out  of  the  way  of  any  passing  boat  in 
the  night,  —  for  they  commonly  hug  the  shore  if  bound 
upstream,  either  to  avoid  the  current  or  touch  the  bot 
tom  with  their  poles,  —  and  where  it  would  be  accessible 
without  stepping  on  the  clayey  shore.  We  set  one  of  our 
largest  melons  to  cool  in  the  still  water  among  the  alders 
at  the  mouth  of  this  creek,  but  when  our  tent  was  pitched 
and  ready,  and  we  went  to  get  it,  it  had  floated  out  into 
the  stream,  and  was  nowhere  to  be  seen.  So  taking  the 
boat  in  the  twilight,  we  went  in  pursuit  of  this  property, 
and  at  length,  after  long  straining  of  the  eyes,  its  green 
disk  was  discovered  far  down  the  river,  gently  floating 
seaward  with  many  twigs  and  leaves  from  the  mountains 
that  evening,  and  so  perfectly  balanced  that  it  had  not 
keeled  at  all,  and  no  water  had  run  in  at  the  tap  which 
had  been  taken  out  to  hasten  its  cooling. 

As  we  sat  on  the  bank  eating  our  supper,  the  clear 
light  of  the  western  sky  fell  on  the  eastern  trees,  and 
was  reflected  in  the  water,  and  we  enjoyed  so  serene  an 
evening  as  left  nothing  to  describe.  For  the  most  part 
we  think  that  there  are  few  degrees  of  sublimity,  and 
that  the  highest  is  but  little  higher  than  that  which  we 
now  behold;  but  we  are  always  deceived.  Sublimer 


310  A  WEEK 

visions  appear,  and  the  former  pale  and  fade  away.  We 
are  grateful  when  we  are  reminded  by  interior  evidence 
of  the  permanence  of  universal  laws ;  for  our  faith  is  but 
faintly  remembered,  indeed,  is  not  a  remembered  assur 
ance,  but  a  use  and  enjoyment  of  knowledge.  It  is  when 
we  do  not  have  to  believe,  but  come  into  actual  contact 
with  Truth,  and  are  related  to  her  in  the  most  direct  and 
intimate  way.  Waves  of  serener  life  pass  over  us  from 
time  to  time,  like  flakes  of  sunlight  over  the  fields  in 
cloudy  weather.  In  some  happier  moment,  when  more 
sap  flows  in  the  withered  stalk  of  our  life,  Syria  and  India 
stretch  away  from  our  present  as  they  do  in  history.  All 
the  events  which  make  the  annals  of  the  nations  are  but 
the  shadows  of  our  private  experiences.  Suddenly  and 
silently  the  eras  which  we  call  history  awake  and  glim 
mer  in  us,  and  there  is  room  for  Alexander  and  Hannibal 
to  march  and  conquer.  In  short,  the  history  which  we 
read  is  only  a  fainter  memory  of  events  which  have  hap 
pened  in  our  own  experience.  Tradition  is  a  more  inter 
rupted  and  feebler  memory. 

This  world  is  but  canvas  to  our  imaginations.  I  see 
men  with  infinite  pains  endeavoring  to  realize  to  their 
bodies,  what  I,  with  at  least  equal  pains,  would  realize 
to  my  imagination,  —  its  capacities;  for  certainly  there 
is  a  life  of  the  mind  above  the  wants  of  the  body,  and 
independent  of  it.  Often  the  body  is  warmed,  but  the 
imagination  is  torpid ;  the  body  is  fat,  but  the  imagina 
tion  is  lean  and  shrunk.  But  what  avails  all  other  wealth 
if  this  is  wanting  ?  "  Imagination  is  the  air  of  mind,"  in 
which  it  lives  and  breathes.  All  things  are  as  I  am. 
Where  is  the  House  of  Change?  The  past  is  only  so 


WEDNESDAY  311 

heroic  as  we  see  it.  It  is  the  canvas  on  which  our  idea 
of  heroism  is  painted,  and  so,  in  one  sense,  the  dim 
prospectus  of  our  future  field.  Our  circumstances 
answer  to  our  expectations  and  the  demand  of  our 
natures.  I  have  noticed  that  if  a  man  thinks  that  he 
needs  a  thousand  dollars,  and  cannot  be  convinced  that 
he  does  not,  he  will  commonly  be  found  to  have  them; 
if  he  lives  and  thinks,  a  thousand  dollars  will  be  forth 
coming,  though  it  be  to  buy  shoe-strings  with.  A  thou 
sand  mills  will  be  just  as  slow  to  come  to  one  who  finds 
it  equally  hard  to  convince  himself  that  he  needs  them. 

Men  are  by  birth  equal  in  this,  that  given 
Themselves  and  their  condition,  they  are  even. 

I  am  astonished  at  the  singular  pertinacity  and 
endurance  of  our  lives.  The  miracle  is,  that  what  is  is, 
when  it  is  so  difficult,  if  not  impossible,  for  anything  else 
to  be;  that  we  walk  on  in  our  particular  paths  so  far, 
before  we  fall  on  death  and  fate,  merely  because  we 
must  walk  in  some  path;  that  every  man  can  get  a 
living,  and  so  few  can  do  anything  more.  So  much  only 
can  I  accomplish  ere  health  and  strength  are  gone,  and 
yet  this  suffices.  The  bird  now  sits  just  out  of  gunshot.  I 
am  never  rich  in  money,  and  I  am  never  meanly  poor. 
If  debts  are  incurred,  why,  debts  are  in  the  course  of 
events  canceled,  as  it  were,  by  the  same  law  by  which 
they  were  incurred.  I  heard  that  an  engagement  was 
entered  into  between  a  certain  youth  and  a  maiden,  and 
then  I  heard  that  it  was  broken  off,  but  I  did  not  know 
the  reason  in  either  case.  We  are  hedged  about,  we 
think,  by  accident  and  circumstance;  now  we  creep  as 
in  a  dream,  and  now  again  we  run,  as  if  there  were  a  fate 


312  A  WEEK 

in  it,  and  all  things  thwarted  or  assisted.  I  cannot 
change  my  clothes  but  when  I  do,  and  yet  I  do  change 
them,  and  soil  the  new  ones.  It  is  wonderful  that  this 
gets  done,  when  some  admirable  deeds  which  I  could 
mention  do  not  get  done.  Our  particular  lives  seem 
of  such  fortune  and  confident  strength  and  durability 
as  piers  of  solid  rock  thrown  forward  into  the  tide  of 
circumstance.  When  every  other  path  would  fail,  with 
singular  and  unerring  confidence  we  advance  on  our 
particular  course.  What  risks  we  run!  famine  and  fire 
and  pestilence,  and  the  thousand  forms  of  a  cruel  fate, 
—  and  yet  every  man  lives  till  he  —  dies.  How  did  he 
manage  that?  Is  there  no  immediate  danger?  We 
wonder  superfluously  when  we  hear  of  a  somnambulist 
walking  a  plank  securely,  —  we  have  walked  a  plank 
all  our  lives  up  to  this  particular  string-piece  where  we 
are.  My  life  will  wait  for  nobody,  but  is  being  matured 
still  without  delay,  while  I  go  about  the  streets,  and 
chaffer  with  this  man  and  that  to  secure  it  a  living.  It 
is  as  indifferent  and  easy  meanwhile  as  a  poor  man's 
dog,  and  making  acquaintance  with  its  kind.  It  will  cut 
its  own  channel  like  a  mountain  stream,  and  by  the 
longest  ridge  is  not  kept  from  the  sea  at  last.  I  have 
found  all  things  thus  far,  persons  and  inanimate  matter, 
elements  and  seasons,  strangely  adapted  to  my  resources. 
No  matter  what  imprudent  haste  in  my  career;  I  am 
permitted  to  be  rash.  Gulfs  are  bridged  in  a  twinkling, 
as  if  some  unseen  baggage  train  carried  pontoons  for 
my  convenience,  and  while  from  the  heights  I  scan  the 
tempting  but  unexplored  Pacific  Ocean  of  Futurity,  the 
ship  is  being  carried  over  the  mountains  piecemeal  on 


WEDNESDAY  313 

the  backs  of  mules  and  llamas,  whose  keel  shall  plow  its 
waves,  and  bear  me  to  the  Indies.  Day  would  not  dawn 
if  it  were  not  for 

THE  INWARD  MORNING 

Packed  in  my  mind  lie  all  the  clothes 

Which  outward  nature  wears, 
And  in  its  fashion's  hourly  change 

It  all  things  else  repairs. 

In  vain  I  look  for  change  abroad, 

And  can  no  difference  find, 
Till  some  new  ray  of  peace  uncalled 

Illunies  my  inmost  mind. 

What  is  it  gilds  the  trees  and  clouds, 

And  paints  the  heavens  so  gay, 
But  yonder  fast-abiding  light 

With  its  unchanging  ray? 

Lo,  when  the  sun  streams  through  the  wood, 

Upon  a  winter's  morn, 
Where'er  his  silent  beams  intrude 

The  murky  night  is  gone. 

How  could  the  patient  pine  have  known 

The  morning  breeze  would  come, 
Or  humble  flowers  anticipate 

The  insect's  noonday  hum,  — 

Till  the  new  light  with  morning  cheer 
From  far  streamed  through  the  aisles,    - 

And  nimbly  told  the  forest  trees 
For  many  stretching  miles  ? 

I've  heard  within  my  inmost  soul 

Such  cheerful  morning  news, 
In  the  horizon  of  my  mind 

Have  seen  such  orient  hues, 


314  A  WEEK 

As  in  the  twilight  of  the  dawn, 

When  the  first  birds  awake, 
Are  heard  within  some  silent  wood, 

Where  they  the  small  twigs  break, 

Or  in  the  eastern  skies  are  seen, 

Before  the  sun  appears, 
The  harbingers  of  summer  heats 

Which  from  afar  he  bears. 

Whole  weeks  and  months  of  my  summer  life  slide 
away  in  thin  volumes  like  mist  and  smoke,  till  at  length, 
some  warm  morning,  perchance,  I  see  a  sheet  of  mist 
blown  down  the  brook  to  the  swamp,  and  I  float  as  high 
above  the  fields  with  it.  I  can  recall  to  mind  the  stillest 
summer  hours,  in  which  the  grasshopper  sings  over 
the  mulleins,  and  there  is  a  valor  in  that  time  the  bare 
memory  of  which  is  armor  that  can  laugh  at  any  blow 
of  fortune.  For  our  lifetime  the  strains  of  a  harp  are 
heard  to  swell  and  die  alternately,  and  death  is  but  "  the 
pause  when  the  blast  is  recollecting  itself." 

We  lay  awake  a  long  while  listening  to  the  murmurs 
of  the  brook,  in  the  angle  formed  by  whose  bank  with 
the  river  our  tent  was  pitched,  and  there  was  a  sort  of 
man  interest  in  its  story,  which  ceases  not  in  freshet  or  in 
drought  the  livelong  summer,  and  the  profounder  lapse 
of  the  river  was  quite  drowned  by  its  din.  But  the  rill, 

whose 

"Silver  sands  and  pebbles  sing 
Eternal  ditties  with  the  spring," 

is  silenced  by  the  first  frosts  of  winter,  while  mightier 
streams,  on  whose  bottom  the  sun  never  shines,  clogged 


WEDNESDAY  315 

with  sunken  rocks  and  the  ruins  of  forests,  from  whose 
surface  comes  up  no  murmur,  are  strangers  to  the  icy 
fetters  which  bind  fast  a  thousand  contributory  rills. 

I  dreamed  this  night  of  an  event  which  had  occurred 
long  before.  It  was  a  difference  with  a  Friend,  which 
had  not  ceased  to  give  me  pain,  though  I  had  no  cause 
to  blame  myself.  But  in  my  dream  ideal  justice  was  at 
length  done  me  for  his  suspicions,  and  I  received  that 
compensation  which  I  had  never  obtained  in  my  waking 
hours.  I  was  unspeakably  soothed  and  rejoiced,  even 
after  I  awoke,  because  in  dreams  we  never  deceive  our 
selves,  nor  are  deceived,  and  this  seemed  to  have  the 
authority  of  a  final  judgment. 

We  bless  and  curse  ourselves.  Some  dreams  are 
divine,  as  well  as  some  waking  thoughts.  Donne  sings 
of  one 

"Who  dreamt  devoutlier  than  most  use  to  pray." 

Dreams  are  the  touchstones  of  our  characters.  We  are 
scarcely  less  afflicted  when  we  remember  some  unwor- 
thiness  in  our  conduct  in  a  dream,  than  if  it  had  been 
actual,  and  the  intensity  of  our  grief,  which  is  our  atone 
ment,  measures  the  degree  by  which  this  is  separated 
from  an  actual  unworthiness.  For  in  dreams  we  but  act 
a  part  which  must  have  been  learned  and  rehearsed  in 
our  waking  hours,  and  no  doubt  could  discover  some 
waking  consent  thereto.  If  this  meanness  had  not  its 
foundation  in  us,  why  are  we  grieved  at  it  ?  In  dreams 
we  see  ourselves  naked  and  acting  out  our  real  charac 
ters,  even  more  clearly  than  we  see  others  awake.  But 
an  unwavering  and  commanding  virtue  would  compel 


316  A  WEEK 

even  its  most  fantastic  and  faintest  dreams  to  respect  its 
ever-wakeful  authority;  as  we  are  accustomed  to  say 
carelessly,  we  should  never  have  dreamed  of  such  a  thing. 
Our  truest  life  is  when  we  are  in  dreams  awake. 

"And,  more  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame  from  high  rock  tumbling  downe, 
And  ever-drizzling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixt  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sowne 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne, 
No  other  noyse,  nor  people's  troublous  cryes, 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  towne, 
Might  there  be  heard;  but  careless  Quiet  lyes 
Wrapt  in  eternall  silence  farre  from  enemyes." 


THURSDAY 

He  trode  the  implanted  forest  floor,  whereon 
The  all-seeing  sun  for  ages  hath  not  shone; 
Where  feeds  the  moose,  and  walks  the  surly  bear, 
And  up  the  tall  mast  runs  the  woodpecker. 

Where  darkness  found  him  he  lay  glad  at  night; 
There  the  red  morning  touched  him  with  its  light. 

Go  where  he  will,  the  wise  man  is  at  home,     * 
His  hearth  the  earth,  —  his  hall  the  azure  dome; 
Where  his  clear  spirit  leads  him,  there 's  his  road, 
By  God's  own  light  illumined  and  foreshowed. 

EMERSON. 

IT  HEN  we  awoke  this  morning,  we  heard  the  faint, 
deliberate,  and  ominous  sound  of  raindrops  on  our 
cotton  roof.  The  rain  had  pattered  all  night,  and  now 
the  whole  country  wept,  the  drops  falling  in  the  river, 
and  on  the  alders,  and  in  the  pastures,  and  instead  of 
any  bow  in  the  heavens,  there  was  the  trill  of  the  hair- 
bird  all  the  morning.  The  cheery  faith  of  this  little 
bird  atoned  for  the  silence  of  the  whole  woodland 
choir  beside.  When  we  first  stepped  abroad,  a  flock  of 
sheep,  led  by  their  rams,  came  rushing  down  a  ravine 
in  our  rear,  with  heedless  haste  and  unreserved  frisk 
ing,  as  if  unobserved  by  man,  from  some  higher  pas 
ture  where  they  had  spent  the  night,  to  taste  the  herbage 
by  the  riverside  ;  but  when  their  leaders  caught  sight 


318  A  WEEK 

of  our  white  tent  through  the  mist,  struck  with  sudden 
astonishment,  with  their  fore  feet  braced,  they  sustained 
the  rushing  torrent  in  their  rear,  and  the  whole  flock 
stood  stock-still,  endeavoring  to  solve  the  mystery  in 
their  sheepish  brains.  At  length,  concluding  that  it 
boded  no  mischief  to  them,  they  spread  themselves  out 
quietly  over  the  field.  We  learned  afterward  that  we 
had  pitched  our  tent  on  the  very  spot  which  a  few  sum 
mers  before  had  been  occupied  by  a  party  of  Penob- 
scots.  We  could  see  rising  before  us  through  the  mist 
a  dark  conical  eminence  called  Hooksett  Pinnacle,  a 
landmark  to  boatmen,  and  also  Uncanmmuc  Mountain, 
broad  off  on  the  west  side  of  the  river. 

This  was  the  limit  of  our  voyage,  for  a  few  hours 
more  in  the  rain  would  have  taken  us  to  the  last  of  the 
locks,  and  our  boat  was  too  heavy  to  be  dragged  around 
the  long  and  numerous  rapids  which  would  occur.  On 
foot,  however,  we  continued  up  along  the  bank,  feeling 
our  way  with  a  stick  through  the  showery  and  foggy 
day,  and  climbing  over  the  slippery  logs  in  our  path 
with  as  much  pleasure  and  buoyancy  as  in  brightest 
sunshine  ;  scenting  the  fragrance  of  the  pines  and  the 
wet  clay  under  our  feet,  and  cheered  by  the  tones  of 
invisible  waterfalls  ;  with  visions  of  toadstools,  and 
wandering  frogs,  and  festoons  of  moss  hanging  from 
the  spruce  trees,  and  thrushes  flitting  silent  under  the 
leaves  ;  our  road  still  holding  together  through  that 
wettest  of  weather,  like  faith,  while  we  confidently  fol 
lowed  its  lead.  We  managed  to  keep  our  thoughts 
dry,  however,  and  only  our  clothes  were  wet.  It  was 
altogether  a  cloudy  and  drizzling  day,  with  occasional 


THURSDAY  319 

brightenings   in  the   mist,  when  the  trill  of   the  tree 
sparrow  seemed  to  be  ushering  in  sunny  hours. 

"  Nothing  that  naturally  happens  to  man  can  hurt 
him,  earthquakes  and  thunder-storms  not  excepted," 
said  a  man  of  genius,  who  at  this  time  lived  a  few 
miles  farther  on  our  road.  When  compelled  by  a 
shower  to  take  shelter  under  a  tree,  we  may  improve 
that  opportunity  for  a  more  minute  inspection  of  some 
of  Nature's  works.  I  have  stood  under  a  tree  in  the 
woods  half  a  day  at  a  time,  during  a  heavy  rain  in 
the  summer,  and  yet  employed  myself  happily  and 
profitably  there  prying  with  microscopic  eye  into  the 
crevices  of  the  bark  or  the  leaves  of  the  fungi  at  my 
feet.  "  Riches  are  the  attendants  of  the  miser;  and  the 
heavens  rain  plenteously  upon  the  mountains."  I  can 
fancy  that  it  would  be  a  luxury  to  stand  up  to  one's 
chin  in  some  retired  swamp  a  whole  summer  day, 
scenting  the  wild  honeysuckle  and  bilberry  blows,  and 
lulled  by  the  minstrelsy  of  gnats  and  mosquitoes  !  A 
day  passed  in  the  society  of  those  Greek  sages,  such 
as  described  in  the  Banquet  of  Xenophon,  would  not 
be  comparable  with  the  dry  wit  of  decayed  cranberry 
vines,  and  the  fresh  Attic  salt  of  the  moss-beds.  Say 
twelve  hours  of  genial  and  familiar  converse  with  the 
leopard  frog  ;  the  sun  to  rise  behind  alder  and  dog 
wood,  and  climb  buoyantly  to  his  meridian  of  two 
hands'  breadth,  and  finally  sink  to  rest  behind  some 
bold  western  hummock.  To  hear  the  evening  chant  of 
the  mosquito  from  a  thousand  green  chapels,  and  the 
bittern  begin  to  boom  from  some  concealed  fort  like  a 
sunset  gun  !  Surely  one  may  as  profitably  be  soaked  in 


320  A  WEEK 

the  juices  of  a  swamp  for  one  day  as  pick  his  way  dry- 
shod  over  sand.  Cold  and  damp,  —  are  they  not  as  rich 
experience  as  warmth  and  dryness  ? 

At  present,  the  drops  come  trickling  down  the  stub 
ble  while  we  lie  drenched  on  a  bed  of  withered  wild 
oats,  by  the  side  of  a  bushy  hill;  and  the  gathering  in 
of  the  clouds,  with  the  last  rush  and  dying  breath  of 
the  wind,  and  then  the  regular  dripping  of  twigs  and 
leaves  the  country  over,  enhance  the  sense  of  inward 
comfort  and  sociableness.  The  birds  draw  closer  and 
are  more  familiar  under  the  thick  foliage,  seemingly 
composing  new  strains  upon  their  roots  against  the 
sunshine.  What  were  the  amusements  of  the  drawing- 
room  and  the  library  in  comparison,  if  we  had  them 
here  ?  We  should  still  sing  as  of  old,  — 

My  books  I'd  fain  cast  off,  I  cannot  read; 
'Twixt  every  page  my  thoughts  go  stray  at  large 
Down  in  the  meadow,  where  is  richer  feed, 
And  will  not  mind  to  hit  their  proper  targe. 

Plutarch  was  good,  and  so  was  Homer  too, 
Our  Shakespeare's  life  were  rich  to  live  again; 
What  Plutarch  read,  that  was  not  good  nor  true, 
Nor  Shakespeare's  book,  unless  his  books  were  men. 

Here  while  I  lie  beneath  this  walnut  bough, 
What  care  I  for  the  Greeks  or  for  Troy  town, 
If  juster  battles  are  enacted  now 
Between  the  ants  upon  this  hummock's  crown  ? 

Bid  Homer  wait  till  1  the  issue  learn, 
If  red  or  black  the  gods  will  favor  most, 
Or  yonder  Ajax  will  the  phalanx  turn, 
Struggling  to  heave  some  rock  against  the  host. 


THURSDAY  321 

Tell  Shakespeare  to  attend  some  leisure  hour, 
For  flow  I've  business  with  this  drop  of  dew, 
And  see  you  not,  the  clouds  prepare  a  shower,  — 
I'll  meet  him  shortly  when  the  sky  is  blue. 

This  bed  of  herd's-grass  and  wild  oats  was  spread 
Last  year  with  nicer  skill  than  monarchs  use, 
A  clover  tuft  is  pillow  for  my  head, 
And  violets  quite  overtop  my  shoes. 

And  now  the  cordial  clouds  have  shut  all  in, 
And  gently  swells  the  wind  to  say  all's  well, 
The  scattered  drops  are  falling  fast  and  thin, 
Some  in  the  pool,  some  in  the  flower-bell. 

I  am  well  drenched  upon  my  bed  of  oats; 
But  see  that  globe  come  rolling  down  its  stem; 
Now  like  a  lonely  planet  there  it  floats, 
And  now  it  sinks  into  my  garment's  hem. 

Drip,  drip  the  trees  for  all  the  country  round, 
And  richness  rare  distills  from  every  bough, 
The  wind  alone  it  is  makes  every  sound, 
Shaking  down  crystals  on  the  leaves  below. 

For  shame  the  sun  will  never  show  himself, 
Who  could  not  with  his  beams  e'er  melt  me  so, 
My  dripping  locks,  —  they  would  become  an  elf, 
Who  in  a  beaded  coat  does  gayly  go. 

The  Pinnacle  is  a  small  wooded  hill  which  rises  very 
abruptly  to  the  height  of  about  two  hundred  feet,  near 
the  shore  at  Hooksett  Falls.  As  Uncannunuc  Moun 
tain  is  perhaps  the  best  point  from  which  to  view 
the  valley  of  the  Merrimack,  so  this  hill  affords  the 
best  view  of  the  river  itself.  I  have  sat  upon  its  sum 
mit,  a  precipitous  rock  only  a  few  rods  long,  in  fairer 


322  A  WEEK 

weather,  when  the  sun  was  setting  and  filling  the  river 
valley  with  a  flood  of  light.  You  can  see  up  and  down 
the  Merrimack  several  miles  each  way.  The  broad  and 
straight  river,  full  of  light  and  life,  with  its  sparkling 
and  foaming  falls,  the  islet  which  divides  the  stream, 
the  village  of  Hooksett  on  the  shore  almost  directly 
under  your  feet,  so  near  that  you  can  converse  with  its 
inhabitants  or  throw  a  stone  into  its  yards,  the  wood 
land  lake  at  its  western  base,  and  the  mountains  in  the 
north  and  northeast,  make  a  scene  of  rare  beauty  and 
completeness,  which  the  traveler  should  take  pains  to 
behold. 

We  were  hospitably  entertained  in  Concord,  New 
Hampshire,  which  we  persisted  in  calling  New  Con 
cord,  as  we  had  been  wont,  to  distinguish  it  from  our 
native  town,  from  which  we  had  been  told  that  it 
was  named  and  in  part  originally  settled.  This  would 
have  been  the  proper  place  to  conclude  our  voyage, 
uniting  Concord  with  Concord  by  these  meandering 
rivers,  but  our  boat  was  moored  some  miles  below  its 
port. 

The  richness  of  the  intervals  at  Penacook,  now  Con 
cord,  New  Hampshire,  had  been  observed  by  explorers, 
and,  according  to  the  historian  of  Haverhill,  in  the  "  year 
1726,  considerable  progress  was  made  in  the  settlement, 
and  a  road  was  cut  through  the  wilderness  from  Haverhill 
to  Penacook.  In  the  fall  of  1727,  the  first  family,  that 
of  Captain  Ebenezer  Eastman,  moved  into  the  place. 
His  team  was  driven  by  Jacob  Shute,  who  was  by  birth  a 
Frenchman,  and  he  is  said  to  have  been  the  first  person 
who  drove  a  team  through  the  wilderness.  Soon  after, 


THURSDAY  323 

says  tradition,  one  Ayer,  a  lad  of  eighteen,  drove  a  team 
consisting  of  ten  yoke  of  oxen  to  Penacook,  swam  the 
river,  and  ploughed  a  portion  of  the  interval.  He  is 
supposed  to  have  been  the  first  person  who  ploughed 
land  in  that  place.  After  he  had  completed  his  work, 
he  started  on  his  return  at  sunrise,  drowned  a  yoke  of 
oxen  while  recrossing  the  river,  and  arrived  at  Haver- 
hill  about  midnight.  The  crank  of  the  first  saw-mill 
was  manufactured  in  Haverhill,  and  carried  to  Pena 
cook  on  a  horse." 

But  we  found  that  the  frontiers  were  not  this  way 
any  longer.  This  generation  has  come  into  the  world 
fatally  late  for  some  enterprises.  Go  where  we  will  on 
the  surface  of  things,  men  have  been  there  before  us. 
We  cannot  now  have  the  pleasure  of  erecting  the  last 
house ;  that  was  long  ago  set  up  in  the  suburbs  of  Astoria 
City,  and  our  boundaries  have  literally  been  run  to  the 
South  Sea,  according  to  the  old  patents.  But  the  lives  ; 
of  men,  though  more  extended  laterally  in  their  range, 
are  still  as  shallow  as  ever.  Undoubtedly,  as  a  Western 
orator  said,  "  Men  generally  live  over  about  the  same 
surface  ;  some  live  long  and  narrow,  and  others  live 
broad  and  short;"  but  it  is  all  superficial  living.  A 
worm  is  as  good  a  traveler  as  a  grasshopper  or  a  cricket, 
and  a  much  wiser  settler.  With  all  their  activity  these 
do  not  hop  away  from  drought  nor  forward  to  sum 
mer.  We  do  not  avoid  evil  by  fleeing  before  it,  but  by 
rising  above  or  diving  below  its  plane  ;  as  the  worm 
escapes  drought  and  frost  by  boring  a  few  inches 
deeper.  The  frontiers  are  not  east  or  west,  north  or 
south;  but  wherever  a  man  fronts  a  fact,  though  that 


324  A  WEEK 

fact  be  his  neighbor,  there  is  an  unsettled  wilderness 
between  him  and  Canada,  between  him  and  the  setting 
sun,  or,  farther  still,  between  him  and  it.  Let  him 
build  himself  a  log  house  with  the  bark  on  where  he  is, 
fronting  IT,  and  wage  there  an  Old  French  war  for 
seven  or  seventy  years,  with  Indians  and  Rangers,  or 
whatever  else  may  come  between  him  and  the  reality, 
and  save  his  scalp  if  he  can. 

We  now  no  longer  sailed  or  floated  on  the  river,  but 
trod  the  unyielding  land  like  pilgrims.  Sadi  tells  who 
may  travel ;  among  others,  "  A  common  mechanic, 
who  can  earn  a  subsistence  by  the  industry  of  his 
hand,  and  shall  not  have  to  stake  his  reputation  for 
every  morsel  of  bread,  as  philosophers  have  said." 
He  may  travel  who  can  subsist  on  the  wild  fruits  and 
game  of  the  most  cultivated  country.  A  man  may 
travel  fast  enough  and  earn  his  living  on  the  road.  I 
have  at  times  been  applied  to,  to  do  work  when  on  a 
journey;  to  do  tinkering  and  repair  clocks,  when  I  had 
a  knapsack  on  my  back.  A  man  once  applied  to  me 
to  go  into  a  factory,  stating  conditions  and  wages,  ob 
serving  that  I  succeeded  in  shutting  the  window  of 
a  railroad  car  in  which  we  were  traveling,  when  the 
other  passengers  had  failed.  "  Hast  thou  not  heard  of 
a  Sufi,  who  was  hammering  some  nails  into  the  sole 
of  his  sandal;  an  officer  of  cavalry  took  him  by  the 
sleeve,  saying,  Come  along  and  shoe  my  horse."  Farm 
ers  have  asked  me  to  assist  them  in  haying  when  I 
was  passing  their  fields.  A  man  once  applied  to  me 
to  mend  his  umbrella,  taking  me  for  an  umbrella- 


THURSDAY  325 

mender,  because,  being  on  a  journey,  I  carried  an  um 
brella  in  my  hand  while  the  sun  shone.  Another  wished 
to  buy  a  tin  cup  of  me,  observing  that  I  had  one 
strapped  to  my  belt,  and  a  sauce-pan  on  my  back. 
The  cheapest  way  to  travel,  and  the  way  to  travel 
the  farthest  in  the  shortest  distance,  is  to  go  afoot, 
carrying  a  dipper,  a  spoon,  and  a  fish  line,  some  In 
dian  meal,  some  salt,  and  some  sugar.  When  you 
come  to  a  brook  or  a  pond,  you  can  catch  fish  and 
cook  them  ;  or  you  can  boil  a  hasty-pudding ;  or 
you  can  buy  a  loaf  of  bread  at  a  farmer's  house  for 
fourpence,  moisten  it  in  the  next  brook  that  crosses 
the  road,  and  dip  it  into  your  sugar, — this  alone  will 
last  you  a  whole  day;  —  or,  if  you  are  accustomed  to 
heartier  living,  you  can  buy  a  quart  of  milk  for  two 
cents,  crumb  your  bread  or  cold  pudding  into  it,  and 
eat  it  with  your  own  spoon  out  of  your  own  dish.  Any 
one  of  these  things  I  mean,  not  all  together.  I  have 
traveled  thus  some  hundreds  of  miles  without  taking 
any  meal  in  a  house,  sleeping  on  the  ground  when 
convenient,  and  found  it  cheaper,  and  in  many  re 
spects  more  profitable,  than  staying  at  home.  So  that 
some  have  inquired  why  it  would  not  be  best  to  travel 
always.  But  I  never  thought  of  traveling  simply  as  a 
means  of  getting  a  livelihood.  A  simple  woman  down 
in  Tyngsborough,  at  whose  house  I  once  stopped  to 
get  a  draught  of  water,  when  I  said,  recognizing  the 
bucket,  that  I  had  stopped  there  nine  years  before  for 
the  same  purpose,  asked  if  I  was  not  a  traveler,  suppos 
ing  I  had  been  traveling  ever  since,  and  had  now  come 
round  again;  that  traveling  was  one  of  the  professions, 


326  A  WEEK 

more  or  less  productive,  which  her  husband  did  not 
follow.  But  continued  traveling  is  far  from  productive. 
It  begins  with  wearing  away  the  soles  of  the  shoes,  and 
making  the  feet  sore,  and  ere  long  it  will  wear  a  man 
clean  up,  after  making  his  heart  sore  into  the  bargain. 
I  have  observed  that  the  after  life  of  those  who  have 
traveled  much  is  very  pathetic.  True  and  sincere  trav 
eling  is  no  pastime,  but  it  is  as  serious  as  the  grave,  or 
any  part  of  the  human  journey,  and  it  requires  a  long 
probation  to  be  broken  into  it.  I  do  not  speak  of  those 
that  travel  sitting,  the  sedentary  travelers  whose  legs 
hang  dangling  the  while,  mere  idle  symbols  of  the  fact, 
any  more  than  when  we  speak  of  sitting  hens  we  mean 
those  that  sit  standing,  but  I  mean  those  to  whom  trav 
eling  is  life  for  the  legs,  and  death  too,  at  last.  The 
traveler  must  be  born  again  on  the  road,  and  earn  a 
passport  from  the  elements,  the  principal  powers  that 
be  for  him.  He  shall  experience  at  last  that  old  threat 
of  his  mother  fulfilled,  that  he  shall  be  skinned  alive. 
His  sores  shall  gradually  deepen  themselves  that  they 
may  heal  inwardly,  while  he  gives  no  rest  to  the  sole 
of  his  foot,  and  at  night  weariness  must  be  his  pillow, 
that  so  he  may  acquire  experience  against  his  rainy 
days.  So  was  it  with  us. 

Sometimes  we  lodged  at  an  inn  in  the  woods,  where 
trout-fishers  from  distant  cities  had  arrived  before  us, 
and  where,  to  our  astonishment,  the  settlers  dropped  in 
at  nightfall  to  have  a  chat  and  hear  the  news,  though 
there  was  but  one  road,  and  no  other  house  was  visible, 
—  as  if  they  had  come  out  of  the  earth.  There  we 
sometimes  read  old  newspapers,  who  never  before  read 


THURSDAY  327 

new  ones,  and  in  the  rustle  of  their  leaves  heard  the 
dashing  of  the  surf  along  the  Atlantic  shore,  instead  of 
the  sough  of  the  wind  among  the  pines.  But  then  walk 
ing  had  given  us  an  appetite  even  for  the  least  palatable 
and  nutritious  food. 

Some  hard  and  dry  book  in  a  dead  language,  which 
you  have  found  it  impossible  to  read  at  home,  but  for 
which  you  have  still  a  lingering  regard,  is  the  best  to 
carry  with  you  on  a  journey.  At  a  country  inn,  in  the 
barren  society  of  ostlers  and  travelers,  I  could  undertake 
the  writers  of  the  silver  or  the  brazen  age  with  confi 
dence.  Almost  the  last  regular  service  which  I  per 
formed  in  the  cause  of  literature  was  to  read  the  works 
of 

AULUS    PERSITTS   FLACCUS. 

If  you  have  imagined  what  a  divine  work  is  spread 
out  for  the  poet,  and  approach  this  author  too,  in  the 
hope  of  finding  the  field  at  length  fairly  entered  on,  you 
will  hardly  dissent  from  the  words  of  the  prologue,  — 

"Ipse  semipaganus 
Ad  sacra  Vatum  carmen  affero  nostrum." 

I  half  pagan 
Bring  my  verses  to  the  shrine  of  the  poets. 

Here  is  none  of  the  interior  dignity  of  Virgil,  nor 
the  elegance  and  vivacity  of  Horace,  nor  will  any  sibyl 
be  needed  to  remind  you  that  from  those  older  Greek 
poets  there  is  a  sad  descent  to  Persius.  You  can  scarcely 
distinguish  one  harmonious  sound  amid  this  unmusical 
bickering  with  the  follies  of  men. 

One  sees  that  music  has  its  place  in  thought,  but 


328  A  WEEK 

hardly  as  yet  in  language.  When  the  Muse  arrives,  we 
wait  for  her  to  remould  language,  and  impart  to  it  her 
own  rhythm.  Hitherto  the  verse  groans  and  labors  with 
its  load,  and  goes  not  forward  blithely,  singing  by  the 
way.  The  best  ode  may  be  parodied,  indeed  is  itself  a 
parody,  and  has  a  poor  and  trivial  sound,  like  a  man 
stepping  on  the  rounds  of  a  ladder.  Homer  and  Shake 
speare  and  Milton  and  Marvell  and  Wordsworth  are 
but  the  rustling  of  leaves  and  crackling  of  twigs  in  the 
forest,  and  there  is  not  yet  the  sound  of  any  bird.  The 
Muse  has  never  lifted  up  her  voice  to  sing.  Most  of  all, 
satire  will  not  be  sung.  A  Juvenal  or  Persius  do  not 
marry  music  to  their  verse,  but  are  measured  fault 
finders  at  best ;  stand  but  just  outside  the  faults  they 
condemn,  and  so  are  concerned  rather  about  the  mon 
ster  which  they  have  escaped  than  the  fair  prospect  be 
fore  them.  Let  them  live  on  an  age,  and  they  will  have 
traveled  out  of  his  shadow  and  reach,  and  found  other 
objects  to  ponder. 

As  long  as  there  is  satire,  the  poet  is,  as  it  were,  par- 
ticeps  criminis.  One  sees  not  but  he  had  best  let  bad 
take  care  of  itself,  and  have  to  do  only  with  what  is  be 
yond  suspicion.  If  you  light  on  the  least  vestige  of  truth, 
and  it  is  the  weight  of  the  whole  body  still  which  stamps 
the  faintest  trace,  an  eternity  will  not  suffice  to  extol  it, 
while  no  evil  is  so  huge,  but  you  grudge  to  bestow  on 
it  a  moment  of  hate.  Truth  never  turns  to  rebuke  false 
hood;  her  own  straightforwardness  is  the  severest  cor 
rection.  Horace  would  not  have  written  satire  so  well  if 
he  had  not  been  inspired  by  it,  as  by  a  passion,  and 
fondly  cherished  his  vein.  In  his  odes,  the  love  always 


THURSDAY  329 

exceeds  the  hate,  so  that  the  severest  satire  still  sings 
itself,  and  the  poet  is  satisfied,  though  the  folly  be  not 
corrected. 

A  sort  of  necessary  order  in  the  development  of  Genius 
is,  first,  Complaint ;  second,  Plaint ;  third,  Love.  Com 
plaint,  which  is  the  condition  of  Persius,  lies  not  in  the 
province  of  poetry.  Ere  long  the  enjoyment  of  a  supe 
rior  good  would  have  changed  his  disgust  into  regret. 
We  can  never  have  much  sympathy  with  the  com- 
plainer  ;  for  after  searching  nature  through,  we  con 
clude  that  he  must  be  both  plaintiff  and  defendant  too, 
and  so  had  best  come  to  a  settlement  without  a  hearing. 
He  who  receives  an  injury  is  to  some  extent  an  accom 
plice  of  the  wrong-doer. 

Perhaps  it  would  be  truer  to  say,  that  the  highest 
strain  of  the  muse  is  essentially  plaintive.  The  saint's 
are  still  tears  of  joy.  Who  has  ever  heard  the  Innocent 
sing? 

But  the  divinest  poem,  or  the  life  of  a  great  man,  is 
the  severest  satire  ;  as  impersonal  as  Nature  herself, 
and  like  the  sighs  of  her  winds  in  the  woods,  which 
convey  ever  a  slight  reproof  to  the  hearer.  The  greater 
the  genius,  the  keener  the  edge  of  the  satire. 

Hence  we  have  to  do  only  with  the  rare  and  frag 
mentary  traits,  which  least  belong  to  Persius,  or  shall 
we  say,  are  the  properest  utterances  of  his  muse; 
since  that  which  he  says  best  at  any  time  is  what  he 
can  best  say  at  all  times.  The  Spectators  and  Ram 
blers  have  not  failed  to  cull  some  quotable  sentences 
from  this  garden  too,  so  pleasant  is  it  to  meet  even  the 
most  familiar  truth  in  a  new  dress,  when,  if  our  neigh- 


330  A  WEEK 

bor  had  said  it,  we  should  have  passed  it  by  as  hack 
neyed.  Out  of  these  six  satires,  you  may  perhaps  select 
some  twenty  lines,  which  fit  so  well  as  many  thoughts, 
that  they  will  recur  to  the  scholar  almost  as  readily  as 
a  natural  image;  though  when  translated  into  familiar 
language,  they  lose  that  insular  emphasis  which  fitted 
them  for  quotation.  Such  lines  as  the  following,  trans 
lation  cannot  render  commonplace.  Contrasting  the 
man  of  true  religion  with  those  who,  with  jealous  pri 
vacy,  would  fain  carry  on  a  secret  commerce  with  the 
gods,  he  says :  — 

"Haud  cuivis  promptum  est,  murmurque  humilesque  susurros 
Tollere  de  templis;  et  aperto  vivere  voto." 

It  is  not  easy  for  every  one  to  take  murmurs  and  low 
Whispers  out  of  the  temples,  and  live  with  open  vow. 

J  To  the  virtuous  man,  the  universe  is  the  only  sanc 
tum  sanctorum,  and  the  penetralia  of  the  temple  are  the 
broad  noon  of  his  existence.  Why  should  he  betake 
himself  to  a  subterranean  crypt,  as  if  it  were  the  only 
holy  ground  in  all  the  world  which  he  had  left  un- 
prof  aned  ?  The  obedient  soul  would  only  the  more  dis 
cover  and  familiarize  things,  and  escape  more  and  more 
into  light  and  air,  as  having  henceforth  done  with  se 
crecy,  so  that  the  universe  shall  not  seem  open  enough 
for  it.  At  length,  it  is  neglectful  even  of  that  silence 
which  is  consistent  with  true  modesty,  but  by  its  inde 
pendence  of  all  confidence  in  its  disclosures  makes  that 
which  it  imparts  so  private  to  the  hearer,  that  it  becomes 
the  care  of  the  whole  world  that  modesty  be  not  in 
fringed. 


THURSDAY  331 

To  the  man  who  cherishes  a  secret  in  his  breast,  there 
is  a  still  greater  secret  unexplored.  Our  most  indiffer 
ent  acts  may  be  matter  for  secrecy,  but  whatever  we 
do  with  the  utmost  truthfulness  and  integrity,  by  virtue 
of  its  pureness,  must  be  transparent  as  light. 

In  the  third  satire,  he  asks :  — 

"Est  aliquid  quo  tendis,  et  in  quod  dirigis  arcum? 
An  passim  sequeris  corvos,  testave,  lutove, 
Securus  quo  pes  f erat,  atque  ex  tempore  vivis  ? " 

Is  there  anything  to  which  thou  tendest,  and  against  which  thou 

directest  thy  bow  ? 

Or  dost  thou  pursue  crows,  at  random,  with  pottery  or  clay, 
Careless  whither  thy  feet  bear  thee,  and  li ve  ex  tempore  ? 

The  bad  sense  is  always  a  secondary  one.  Language 
does  not  appear  to  have  justice  done  it,  but  is  obviously 
cramped  and  narrowed  in  its  significance,  when  any 
meanness  is  described.  The  truest  construction  is  not 
put  upon  it.  What  may  readily  be  fashioned  into  a  rule 
of  wisdom  is  here  thrown  in  the  teeth  of  the  sluggard, 
and  constitutes  the  front  of  his  offense.  Universally, 
the  innocent  man  will  come  forth  from  the  sharpest 
inquisition  and  lecturing,  the  combined  din  of  reproof 
and  commendation,  with  a  faint  sound  of  eulogy  in  his 
ears.  Our  vices  always  lie  in  the  direction  of  our  vir-  , 
tues,  and  in  their  best  estate  are  but  plausible  imitations 
of  the  latter.  Falsehood  never  attains  to  the  dignity  of 
entire  falseness,  but  is  only  an  inferior  sort  of  truth;  if 
it  were  more  thoroughly  false,  it  would  incur  danger  of 
becoming  true. 

"Securus  quo  pes  ferat,  atque  ex  tempore  vivit  " 


332  A  WEEK 

is  then  the  motto  of  a  wise  man.  For  first,  as  the  subtle 
discernment  of  the  language  would  have  taught  us, 
with  all  his  negligence  he  is  still  secure;  but  the  slug 
gard,  notwithstanding  his  heedlessness,  is  insecure. 

The  life  of  a  wise  man  is  most  of  all  extemporaneous, 
for  he  lives  out  of  an  eternity  which  includes  all  time. 
The  cunning  mind  travels  further  back  than  Zoroaster 
each  instant,  and  comes  quite  down  to  the  present  with 
its  revelation.  The  utmost  thrift  and  industry  of  think 
ing  give  no  man  any  stock  in  life;  his  credit  with  the 
inner  world  is  no  better,  his  capital  no  larger.  He  must 
try  his  fortune  again  to-day  as  yesterday.  All  questions 
rely  on  the  present  for  their  solution.  Time  measures 
nothing  but  itself.  The  word  that  is  written  may  be 
postponed,  but  not  that  on  the  lip.  If  this  is  what  the 
occasion  says,  let  the  occasion  say  it.  All  the  world  is 
forward  to  prompt  him  who  gets  up  to  live  without 
his  creed  in  his  pocket. 

In  the  fifth  satire,  which  is  the  best,  I  find,  — 

"Stat  contra  ratio,  et  secretam  garrit  in  aurem, 
Ne  liceat  facere  id,  quod  quis  vitiabit  agendo." 

Reason  opposes,  and  whispers  in  the  secret  ear, 

That  it  is  not  lawful  to  do  that  which  one  will  spoil  by  doing. 

Oijly  they  who  do  not  see  how  anything  might  be  bet 
ter  done  are  forward  to  try  their  hand  on  it.  Even  the 
master  workman  must  be  encouraged  by  the  reflection 
that  his  awkwardness  will  be  incompetent  to  do  that 
thing  harm,  to  which  his  skill  may  fail  to  do  justice. 
Here  is  no  apology  for  neglecting  to  do  many  things 
from  a  sense  of  our  incapacity,  —  for  what  deed  does 


THURSDAY  333 

not  fall  maimed  and  imperfect  from  our  hands  ?  —  but 
only  a  warning  to  bungle  less. 

The  satires  of  Persius  are  the  furthest  possible  from 
inspired,  —  evidently  a  chosen,  not  imposed  subject. 
Perhaps  I  have  given  him  credit  for  more  earnestness 
than  is  apparent  ;  but  it  is  certain  that  that  which 
alone  we  can  call  Persius,  which  is  forever  independent 
and  consistent,  was  in  earnest,  and  so  sanctions  the 
sober  consideration  of  all.  The  artist  and  his  work  are 
not  to  be  separated.  The  most  willfully  foolish  man 
cannot  stand  aloof  from  his  folly,  but  the  deed  and  the 
doer  together  make  ever  one  sober  fact.  There  is  but 
one  stage  for  the  peasant  and  the  actor.  The  buffoon 
cannot  bribe  you  to  laugh  always  at  his  grimaces  ; 
they  shall  sculpture  themselves  in  Egyptian  granite,  to 
stand  heavy  as  the  pyramids  on  the  ground  of  his 
character. 


Suns  rose  and  set  and  found  us  still  on  the  dank 
forest  path  which  meanders  up  the  Pemigewasset,  now 
more  like  an  otter's  or  a  marten's  trail,  or  where  a 
beaver  had  dragged  his  trap,  than  where  the  wheels 
of  travel  raise  a  dust  ;  where  towns  begin  to  serve  as 
gores,  only  to  hold  the  earth  together.  The  wild  pigeon 
sat  secure  above  our  heads,  high  on  the  dead  limbs  of 
naval  pines,  reduced  to  a  robin's  size.  The  very  yards 
of  our  hostelries  inclined  upon  the  skirts  of  mountains, 
and,  as  we  passed,  we  looked  up  at  a  steep  angle  at 
the  stems  of  maples  waving  in  the  clouds. 

Far  up  in  the  country,  —  for  we  would  be  faithful  to 
our  experience,  —  in  Thornton,  perhaps,  we  met  a  sol- 


334  A  WEEK 

dier  lad  in  the  woods,  going  to  muster  in  full  regiment 
als,  and  holding  the  middle  of  the  road  ;  deep  in  the 
forest,  with  shouldered  musket  and  military  step,  and 
thoughts  of  war  and  glory  all  to  himself.  It  was  a  sore 
trial  to  the  youth,  tougher  than  many  a  battle,  to  get 
by  us  creditably  and  with  soldier-like  bearing.  Poor 
man!  He  actually  shivered  like  a  reed  in  his  thin  mili 
tary  pants,  and  by  the  time  we  had  got  up  with  him, 
all  the  sternness  that  becomes  the  soldier  had  forsaken 
his  face,  and  he  skulked  past  as  if  he  were  driving  his 
father's  sheep  under  a  sword-proof  helmet.  It  was  too 
much  for  him  to  carry  any  extra  armor  then,  who 
could  not  easily  dispose  of  his  natural  arms.  And  for 
his  legs,  they  were  like  heavy  artillery  in  boggy  places; 
better  to  cut  the  traces  and  forsake  them.  His  greaves 
chafed  and  wrestled  one  with  another  for  want  of  other 
foes.  But  he  did  get  by  and  get  off  with  all  his  muni 
tions,  and  lived  to  fight  another  day  ;  and  I  do  not 
record  this  as  casting  any  suspicion  on  his  honor  and 
real  bravery  in  the  field. 

Wandering  on  through  notches  which  the  streams 
had  made,  by  the  side  and  over  the  brows  of  hoar  hills 
and  mountains,  across  the  stumpy,  rocky,  forested,  and 
bepastured  country,  we  at  length  crossed  on  prostrate 
trees  over  the  Amonoosuck,  and  breathed  the  free  air 
of  Unappropriated  Land.  Thus,  in  fair  days  as  well  as 
foul,  we  had  traced  up  the  river  to  which  our  native 
stream  is  a  tributary,  until  from  Merrimack  it  became 
the  Pemigewasset  that  leaped  by  our  side,  and  when 
we  had  passed  its  fountain-head,  the  Wild  Amonoo 
suck,  whose  puny  channel  was  crossed  at  a  stride, 


THURSDAY  335 

guiding  us  toward  its  distant  source  among  the  moun 
tains,  at  length,  without  its  guidance,  we  were  enabled 
to  reach  the  summit  AGIOCOCHOOK. 


"Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright, 
The  bridal  of  the  earth  and  sky, 
The  dew  shall  weep  thy  fall  to-night, 

For  thou  must  die."  —  HERBERT. 

When  we  returned  to  Hooksett,  a  week  afterward, 
the  melon  man,  in  whose  corn-barn  we  had  hung  our 
tent  and  buffaloes  and  other  things  to  dry,  was  already 
picking  his  hops,  with  many  women  and  children  to 
help  him.  We  bought  one  watermelon,  the  largest  in 
his  patch,  to  carry  with  us  for  ballast.  It  was  Na 
than's,  which  he  might  sell  if  he  wished,  having  been 
conveyed  to  him  in  the  green  state,  and  owned  daily 
by  his  eyes.  After  due  consultation  with  "  Father," 
the  bargain  was  concluded,  —  we  to  buy  it  at  a  ven 
ture  on  the  vine,  green  or  ripe,  our  risk,  and  pay 
"  what  the  gentleman  pleased."  It  proved  to  be  ripe  ; 
for  we  had  had  honest  experience  in  selecting  this 
fruit. 

Finding  our  boat  safe  in  its  harbor,  under  Uncan- 
nunuc  Mountain,  with  a  fair  wind  and  the  current  in 
our  favor,  we  commenced  our  return  voyage  at  noon, 
sitting  at  our  ease  and  conversing,  or  in  silence  watch 
ing  for  the  last  trace  of  each  reach  in  the  river  as  a 
bend  concealed  it  from  our  view.  As  the  season  was 
further  advanced,  the  wind  now  blew  steadily  from  the 
north,  and  with  our  sail  set  we  could  occasionally  lie 


336  A  WEEK 

on  our  oars  without  loss  of  time.  The  lumbermen 
throwing  down  wood  from  the  top  of  the  high  bank, 
thirty  or  forty  feet  above  the  water,  that  it  might  be 
sent  downstream,  paused  in  their  work  to  watch  our 
retreating  sail.  By  this  time,  indeed,  we  were  well 
known  to  the  boatmen,  and  were  hailed  as  the  Revenue 
Cutter  of  the  stream.  As  we  sailed  rapidly  down  the 
river,  shut  in  between  two  mounds  of  earth,  the  sounds 
of  this  timber  rolled  down  the  bank  enhanced  the 
silence  and  vastness  of  the  noon,  and  we  fancied  that 
only  the  primeval  echoes  were  awakened.  The  vision 
of  a  distant  scow  just  heaving  in  sight  round  a  head 
land  also  increased  by  contrast  the  solitude. 

Through  the  din  and  desultoriness  of  noon,  even  in 
the  most  Oriental  city,  is  seen  the  fresh  and  primitive 
and  savage  nature,  in  which  Scythians  and  Ethiopians 
and  Indians  dwell.  What  is  echo,  what  are  light  and 
shade,  day  and  night,  ocean  and  stars,  earthquake  and 
eclipse,  there?  The  works  of  man  are  everywhere 
swallowed  up  in  the  immensity  of  nature.  The  JEgean 
Sea  is  but  Lake  Huron  still  to  the  Indian.  Also  there 
is  all  the  refinement  of  civilized  life  in  the  woods  un 
der  a  sylvan  garb.  The  wildest  scenes  have  an  air  of 
domesticity  and  homeliness  even  to  the  citizen,  and 
when  the  flicker's  cackle  is  heard  in  the  clearing,  he  is 
reminded  that  civilization  has  wrought  but  little  change 
there.  Science  is  welcome  to  the  deepest  recesses  of  the 
forest,  for  there  too  nature  obeys  the  same  old  civil 
laws.  The  little  red  bug  on  the  stump  of  a  pine,  —  for 
it  the  wind  shifts  and  the  sun  breaks  through  the 
clouds.  In  the  wildest  nature,  there  is  not  only  the 


THURSDAY  337 

material  of  the  most  cultivated  life,  and  a  sort  of  an 
ticipation  of  the  last  result,  but  a  greater  refinement 
already  than  is  ever  attained  by  man.  There  is  papy 
rus  by  the  riverside,  and  rushes  for  light,  and  the  goose 
only  flies  overhead,  ages  before  the  studious  are  born 
or  letters  invented,  and  that  literature  which  the  for 
mer  suggest,  and  even  from  the  first  have  rudely  served, 
it  may  be  man  does  not  yet  use  them  to  express.  Na 
ture  is  prepared  to  welcome  into  her  scenery  the  finest 
work  of  human  art,  for  she  is  herself  an  art  so  cunning 
that  the  artist  never  appears  in  his  work. 

Art  is  not  tame,  and  Nature  is  not  wild,  in  the  or 
dinary  sense.  A  perfect  work  of  man's  art  would  also 
be  wild  or  natural  in  a  good  sense.  Man  tames  Nature 
only  that  he  may  at  last  make  her  more  free  even 
than  he  found  her,  though  he  may  never  yet  have  suc 
ceeded. 

With  this  propitious  breeze,  and  the  help  of  our  oars, 
we  soon  reached  the  Falls  of  Amoskeag,  and  the  mouth 
of  the  Piscataquoag,  and  recognized,  as  we  swept  rap 
idly  by,  many  a  fair  bank  and  islet  on  which  our  eyes 
had  rested  in  the  upward  passage.  Our  boat  was  like 
that  which  Chaucer  describes  in  his  Dream,  in  which 
the  knight  took  his  departure  from  the  island,  — 

"To  journey  for  his  marriage, 
And  returne  with  such  an  host, 
That  wedded  might  be  least  and  most.  ..." 
Which  barge  was  as  a  man's  thought, 
After  his  pleasure  to  him  brought, 
The  queene  herselfe  accustomed  aye 


338  A  WEEK 

In  the  same  barge  to  play, 

It  needeth  neither  mast  ne  rother, 

I  have  not  heard  of  such  another, 

No  maister  for  the  governaunce, 

Hie  sayled  by  thought  and  pleasaunce, 

Without  labour,  east  and  west, 

Alle  was  one,  calrne  or  tempest." 

So  we  sailed  this  afternoon,  thinking  of  the  saying  of 
Pythagoras,  though  we  had  no  peculiar  right  to  re 
member  it,  "  It  is  beautiful  when  prosperity  is  present 
with  intellect,  and  when  sailing  as  it  were  with  a  pros 
perous  wind,  actions  are  performed  looking  to  virtue; 
just  as  a  pilot  looks  to  the  motions  of  the  stars."  All 
the  world  reposes  in  beauty  to  him  who  preserves  equi 
poise  in  his  life,  and  moves  serenely  on  his  path  without 
secret  violence  ;  as  he  who  sails  down  a  stream,  he  has 
only  to  steer,  keeping  his  bark  in  the  middle,  and  carry 
it  round  the  falls.  The  ripples  curled  away  in  our 
wake,  like  ringlets  from  the  head  of  a  child,  while  we 
steadily  held  on  our  course,  and  under  the  bows  we 
watched 

"The  swaying  soft, 

Made  by  the  delicate  wave  parted  in  front, 
As  through  the  gentle  element  we  move 
Like  shadows  gliding  through  untroubled  realms." 

The  forms  of  beauty  fall  naturally  around  the  path  of 
him  who  is  in  the  performance  of  his  proper  work;  as 
the  curled  shavings  drop  from  the  plane,  and  borings 
cluster  around  the  auger.  Undulation  is  the  gentlest 
and  most  ideal  of  motions,  produced  by  one  fluid  fall 
ing  on  another.  Rippling  is  a  more  graceful  flight. 


THURSDAY  339 

From  a  hill-top  you  may  detect  in  it  the  wings  of  birds 
endlessly  repeated.  The  two  waving  lines  which  re 
present  the  flight  of  birds  appear  to  have  been  copied 
from  the  ripple. 

The  trees  made  an  admirable  fence  to  the  landscape, 
skirting  the  horizon  on  every  side.  The  single  trees  and 
the  groves  left  standing  on  the  interval  appeared  natu 
rally  disposed,  though  the  farmer  had  consulted  only  his 
convenience,  for  he  too  falls  into  the  scheme  of  Nature. 
Art  can  never  match  the  luxury  and  superfluity  of 
Nature.  In  the  former  all  is  seen;  it  cannot  afford 
concealed  wealth,  and  is  niggardly  in  comparison;  but 
Nature,  even  when  she  is  scant  and  thin  outwardly, 
satisfies  us  still  by  the  assurance  of  a  certain  generosity 
at  the  roots.  In  swamps,  where  there  is  only  here  and 
there  an  evergreen  tree  amid  the  quaking  moss  and 
cranberry  beds,  the  bareness  does  not  suggest  poverty. 
The  single  spruce,  which  I  had  hardly  noticed  in  gar 
dens,  attracts  me  in  such  places,  and  now  first  I  under 
stand  why  men  try  to  make  them  grow  about  their 
houses.  But  though  there  may  be  very  perfect  speci 
mens  in  front-yard  plots,  their  beauty  is  for  the  most  part 
ineffectual  there,  for  there  is  no  such  assurance  of  kin 
dred  wealth  beneath  and  around  them,  to  make  them 
show  to  advantage.  As  we  have  said,  Nature  is  a  greater 
and  more  perfect  art,  the  art  of  God;  though,  referred 
to  herself,  she  is  genius;  and  there  is  a  similarity 
between  her  operations  and  man's  art  even  in  the 
details  and  trifles.  When  the  overhanging  pine  drops 
into  the  water,  by  the  sun  and  water,  and  the  wind  rub 
bing  it  against  the  shore,  its  boughs  are  worn  into  fan- 


340  A  WEEK 

tastic  shapes,  and  white  and  smooth,  as  if  turned  in  a 
lathe.  Man's  art  has  wisely  imitated  those  forms  into 
which  all  matter  is  most  inclined  to  run,  as  foliage  and 
fruit.  A  hammock  swung  in  a  grove  assumes  the  exact 
form  of  a  canoe,  broader  or  narrower,  and  higher  or 
lower  at  the  ends,  as  more  or  fewer  persons  are  in  it, 
and  it  rolls  in  the  air  with  the  motion  of  the  body,  like 
a  canoe  in  the  water.  Our  art  leaves  its  shavings  and 
its  dust  about;  her  art  exhibits  itself  even  in  the  shav 
ings  and  the  dust  which  we  make.  She  has  perfected 
herself  by  an  eternity  of  practice.  The  world  is  well 
kept ;  no  rubbish  accumulates ;  the  morning  air  is  clear 
even  at  this  day,  and  no  dust  has  settled  on  the  grass. 
Behold  how  the  evening  now  steals  over  the  fields,  the 
shadows  of  the  trees  creeping  farther  and  farther  into 
the  meadow,  and  ere  long  the  stars  will  come  to  bathe  in 
these  retired  waters.  Her  undertakings  are  secure  and 
never  fail.  If  I  were  awakened  from  a  deep  sleep,  I 
should  know  which  side  of  the  meridian  the  sun  might 
be  by  the  aspect  of  nature,  and  by  the  chirp  of  the 
crickets,  and  yet  no  painter  can  paint  this  difference. 
The  landscape  contains  a  thousand  dials  which  indicate 
the  natural  divisions  of  time,  the  shadows  of  a  thousand 
styles  point  to  the  hour. 

"Not  only  o'er  the  dial's  face 

This  silent  phantom  day  by  day, 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace 

Steals  moments,  months,  and  years  away; 
From  hoary  rock  and  aged  tree, 

From  proud  Palmyra's  mouldering  walls, 
From  Teneriffe,  towering  o'er  the  sea, 

From  every  blade  of  grass  it  falls." 


THURSDAY  341 

It  is  almost  the  only  game  which  the  trees  play  at,  this 
tit-for-tat,  now  this  side  in  the  sun,  now  that,  the  drama 
of  the  day.  In  deep  ravines  under  the  eastern  sides  of 
cliffs,  Night  forwardly  plants  her  foot  even  at  noonday, 
and  as  Day  retreats  she  steps  into  his  trenches,  skulk 
ing  from  tree  to  tree,  from  fence  to  fence,  until  at  last 
she  sits  in  her  citadel  and  draws  out  her  forces  into  the 
plain.  It  may  be  that  the  forenoon  is  brighter  than  the 
afternoon,  not  only  because  of  the  greater  transparency 
of  its  atmosphere,  but  because  we  naturally  look  most 
into  the  west,  as  forward  into  the  day,  and  so  in  the 
forenoon  see  the  sunny  side  of  things,  but  in  the  after 
noon  the  shadow  of  every  tree. 

The  afternoon  is  now  far  advanced,  and  a  fresh  and 
leisurely  wind  is  blowing  over  the  river,  making  long 
reaches  of  bright  ripples.  The  river  has  done  its  stint, 
and  appears  not  to  flow,  but  lie  at  its  length  reflecting 
the  light,  and  the  haze  over  the  woods  is  like  the  inau 
dible  panting,  or  rather  the  gentle  perspiration  of  resting 
nature,  rising  from  a  myriad  of  pores  into  the  attenuated 
atmosphere. 

On  the  thirty-first  day  of  March,  one  hundred  and 
forty-two  years  before  this,  probably  about  this  time  in 
the  afternoon,  there  were  hurriedly  paddling  down  this 
part  of  the  river,  between  the  pine  woods  which  then 
fringed  these  banks,  two  white  women  and  a  boy,  who 
had  left  an  island  at  the  mouth  of  the  Contoocook  be 
fore  daybreak.  They  were  slightly  clad  for  the  season, 
in  the  English  fashion,  and  handled  their  paddles  un- 
skillfully,  but  with  nervous  energy  and  determination, 


342  A  WEEK 

and  at  the  bottom  of  their  canoe  lay  the  still  bleeding 
scalps  of  ten  of  the  aborigines.  They  were  Hannah 
Dustan,  and  her  nurse,  Mary  Neff,  both  of  Haverhill, 
eighteen  miles  from  the  mouth  of  this  river,  and  an 
English  boy,  named  Samuel  Lennardson,  escaping  from 
captivity  among  the  Indians.  On  the  15th  of  March 
previous,  Hannah  Dustan  had  been  compelled  to  rise 
from  childbed,  and  half  dressed,  with  one  foot  bare,  ac 
companied  by  her  nurse,  commence  an  uncertain  march, 
in  still  inclement  weather,  through  the  snow  and  the 
wilderness.  She  had  seen  her  seven  elder  children  flee 
with  their  father,  but  knew  not  of  their  fate.  She  had 
seen  her  infant's  brains  dashed  out  against  an  apple 
tree,  and  had  left  her  own  and  her  neighbors'  dwellings 
in  ashes.  When  she  reached  the  wigwam  of  her  captor, 
situated  on  an  island  in  the  Merrimack,  more  than 
twenty  miles  above  where  we  now  are,  she  had  been 
told  that  she  and  her  nurse  were  soon  to  be  taken  to  a 
distant  Indian  settlement,  and  there  made  to  run  the 
gauntlet  naked.  The  family  of  this  Indian  consisted  of 
two  men,  three  women,  and  seven  children,  besides  an 
English  boy,  whom  she  found  a  prisoner  among  them. 
Having  determined  to  attempt  her  escape,  she  instructed 
the  boy  to  inquire  of  one  of  the  men,  how  he  should 
dispatch  an  enemy  in  the  quickest  manner,  and  take  his 
scalp.  "  Strike  'em  there,"  said  he,  placing  his  finger 
on  his  temple,  and  he  also  showed  him  how  to  take  off 
the  scalp.  On  the  morning  of  the  31st  she  arose  before 
daybreak,  and  awoke  her  nurse  and  the  boy,  and  taking 
the  Indians'  tomahawks,  they  killed  them  all  in  their 
sleep,  excepting  one  favorite  boy,  and  one  squaw  who 


THURSDAY  343 

fled  wounded  with  him  to  the  woods.  The  English  boy 
struck  the  Indian  who  had  given  him  the  information, 
on  the  temple,  as  he  had  been  directed.  They  then  col 
lected  all  the  provision  they  could  find,  and  took  their 
master's  tomahawk  and  gun,  and  scuttling  all  the  canoes 
but  one,  commenced  their  flight  to  Haverhill,  distant 
about  sixty  miles  by  the  river.  But  after  having  pro 
ceeded  a  short  distance,  fearing  that  her  story  would  not 
be  believed  if  she  should  escape  to  tell  it,  they  returned 
to  the  silent  wigwam,  and  taking  off  the  scalps  of  the 
dead,  put  them  into  a  bag  as  proofs  of  what  they  had 
done,  and  then,  retracing  their  steps  to  the  shore  in  the 
twilight,  recommenced  their  voyage. 

Early  this  morning  this  deed  was  performed,  and 
now,  perchance,  these  tired  women  and  this  boy,  their 
clothes  stained  with  blood,  and  their  minds  racked  with 
alternate  resolution  and  fear,  are  making  a  hasty  meal 
of  parched  corn  and  moose-meat,  while  their  canoe 
glides  under  these  pine  roots  whose  stumps  are  still 
standing  on  the  bank.  They  are  thinking  of  the  dead 
whom  they  have  left  behind  on  that  solitary  isle  far  up 
the  stream,  and  of  the  relentless  living  warriors  who 
are  in  pursuit.  Every  withered  leaf  which  the  winter 
has  left  seems  to  know  their  story,  and  in  its  rustling 
to  repeat  it  and  betray  them.  An  Indian  lurks  behind 
every  rock  and  pine,  and  their  nerves  cannot  bear  the 
tapping  of  a  woodpecker.  Or  they  forget  their  own 
dangers  and  their  deeds  in  conjecturing  the  fate  of 
their  kindred,  and  whether,  if  they  escape  the  Indians, 
they  shall  find  the  former  still  alive.  They  do  not  stop 
to  cook  their  meals  upon  the  bank,  nor  land,  except  to 


344  A  WEEK 

carry  their  canoe  about  the  falls.  The  stolen  birch  for 
gets  its  master  and  does  them  good  service,  and  the 
swollen  current  bears  them  swiftly  along  with  little 
need  of  the  paddle,  except  to  steer  and  keep  them 
warm  by  exercise.  For  ice  is  floating  in  the  river;  the 
spring  is  opening;  the  muskrat  and  the  beaver  are 
driven  out  of  their  holes  by  the  flood;  deer  gaze  at 
them  from  the  bank;  a  few  faint-singing  forest  birds, 
perchance,  fly  across  the  river  to  the  northernmost 
shore;  the  fishhawk  sails  and  screams  overhead,  and 
geese  fly  over  with  a  startling  clangor;  but  they  do  not 
observe  these  things,  or  they  speedily  forget  them. 
They  do  not  smile  or  chat  all  day.  Sometimes  they 
pass  an  Indian  grave  surrounded  by  its  paling  on  the 
bank,  or  the  frame  of  a  wigwam,  with  a  few  coals  left 
behind,  or  the  withered  stalks  still  rustling  in  the  In 
dian's  solitary  corn-field  on  the  interval.  The  birch 
stripped  of  its  bark,  or  the  charred  stump  where  a 
tree  has  been  burned  down  to  be  made  into  a  canoe, 
—  these  are  the  only  traces  of  man,  a  fabulous  wild 
man  to  us.  On  either  side,  the  primeval  forest  stretches 
away  uninterrupted  to  Canada,  or  to  the  "  South  Sea;" 
to  the  white  man  a  drear  and  howling  wilderness,  but 
to  the  Indian  a  home,  adapted  to  his  nature,  and  cheer 
ful  as  the  smile  of  the  Great  Spirit. 

While  we  loiter  here  this  autumn  evening,  looking 
for  a  spot  retired  enough,  where  we  shall  quietly  rest 
to-night,  they  thus,  in  that  chilly  March  evening,  one 
hundred  and  forty-two  years  before  us,  with  wind  and 
current  favoring,  have  already  glided  out  of  sight,  not 
to  camp,  as  we  shall,  at  night,  but  while  two  sleep, 


THURSDAY  345 

one  will  manage  the  canoe,  and  the  swift  stream  bear 
them  onward  to  the  settlements,  it  may  be,  even  to  old 
John  Lovewell's  house  on  Salmon  Brook  to-night. 

According  to  the  historian,  they  escaped  as  by  a 
miracle  all  roving  bands  of  Indians,  and  reached  their 
homes  in  safety,  with  their  trophies,  for  which  the 
General  Court  paid  them  fifty  pounds.  The  family  of 
Hannah  Dustan  all  assembled  alive  once  more,  except 
the  infant  whose  brains  were  dashed  out  against  the 
apple  tree,  and  there  have  been  many  who  in  later 
time  have  lived  to  say  that  they  have  eaten  of  the  fruit 
of  that  apple  tree. 

This  seems  a  long  while  ago,  and  yet  it  happened 
since  Milton  wrote  his  Paradise  Lost.  But  its  antiquity 
is  not  the  less  great  for  that,  for  we  do  not  regulate 
our  historical  time  by  the  English  standard,  nor  did 
the  English  by  the  Roman,  nor  the  Roman  by  the 
Greek.  "  We  must  look  a  long  way  back,"  says  Ra 
leigh,  "  to  find  the  Romans  giving  laws  to  nations,  and 
their  consuls  bringing  kings  and  princes  bound  in 
chains  to  Rome  in  triumph  ;  to  see  men  go  to  Greece 
for  wisdom,  or  Ophir  for  gold  ;  when  now  nothing  re 
mains  but  a  poor  paper  remembrance  of  their  former 
condition."  And  yet,  in  one  sense,  not  so  far  back  as 
to  find  the  Penacooks  and  Pawtuckets  using  bows  and 
arrows  and  hatchets  of  stone,  on  the  banks  of  the 
Merrimack.  From  this  September  afternoon,  and  from 
between  these  now  cultivated  shores,  those  times  seemed 
more  remote  than  the  dark  ages.  On  beholding  an  old 
picture  of  Concord,  as  it  appeared  but  seventy-five 


346  A  WEEK 

years  ago,  with  a  fair  open  prospect  and  a  light  on 
trees  and  river,  as  if  it  were  broad  noon,  I  find  that 
I  had  not  thought  the  sun  shone  in  those  days,  or 
that  men  lived  in  broad  daylight  then.  Still  less  do 
we  imagine  the  sun  shining  on  hill  and  valley  during 
Philip's  war,  on  the  war-path  of  Church  or  Philip, 
or  later  of  Lovewell  or  Paugus,  with  serene  summer 
weather,  but  they  must  have  lived  and  fought  in  a  dim 
twilight  or  night. 

The  age  of  the  world  is  great  enough  for  our  imagi 
nations,  even  according  to  the  Mosaic  account,  without 
borrowing  any  years  from  the  geologist.  From  Adam 
and  Eve  at  one  leap  sheer  down  to  the  deluge,  and  then 
through  the  ancient  monarchies,  through  Babylon  and 
Thebes,  Brahma  and  Abraham,  to  Greece  and  the  Argo 
nauts  ;  whence  we  might  start  again  with  Orpheus,  and 
the  Trojan  war,  the  Pyramids  and  the  Olympic  games, 
and  Homer  and  Athens,  for  our  stages  ;  and  after  a 
breathing  space  at  the  building  of  Rome,  continue  our 
journey  down  through  Odin  and  Christ  to  —  America. 
It  is  a  wearisome  while.  And  yet  the  lives  of  but  sixty 
old  women,  such  as  live  under  the  hill,  say  of  a  century 
each,  strung  together,  are  sufficient  to  reach  over  the 
whole  ground.  Taking  hold  of  hands  they  would  span 
the  interval  from  Eve  to  my  own  mother.  A  respect 
able  tea-party  merely,  —  whose  gossip  would  be  Uni 
versal  History.  The  fourth  old  woman  from  myself 
suckled  Columbus,  —  the  ninth  was  nurse  to  the  Nor 
man  Conqueror,  —  the  nineteenth  was  the  Virgin  Mary, 
—  the  twenty-fourth  theCumsean  Sibyl,  —  the  thirtieth 
was  at  the  Trojan  war  and  Helen  her  name,  —  the 


THURSDAY  347 

thirty-eighth  was  Queen  Semiramis,  —  the  sixtieth  was 
Eve,  the  mother  of  mankind.    So  much  for  the 

"Old  woman  that  lives  under  the  hill, 
And  if  she's  not  gone  she  lives  there  still." 

It  will  not  take  a  very  great-granddaughter  of  hers  to 
be  in  at  the  death  of  Time. 

We  can  never  safely  exceed  the  actual  facts  in  our 
narratives.  Of  pure  invention,  such  as  some  suppose, 
there  is  no  instance.  To  write  a  true  work  of  fiction 
even  is  only  to  take  leisure  and  liberty  to  describe 
some  things  more  exactly  as  they  are.  A  true  account 
of  the  actual  is  the  rarest  poetry,  for  common  sense 
always  takes  a  hasty  and  superficial  view.  Though  I 
am  not  much  acquainted  with  the  works  of  Goethe,  I 
should  say  that  it  was  one  of  his  chief  excellences  as  a 
writer,  that  he  was  satisfied  with  giving  an  exact  de 
scription  of  things  as  they  appeared  to  him,  and  their 
effect  upon  him.  Most  travelers  have  not  self-respect 
enough  to  do  this  simply,  and  make  objects  and  events 
stand  around  them  as  the  centre,  but  still  imagine 
more  favorable  positions  and  relations  than  the  actual 
ones,  and  so  we  get  no  valuable  report  from  them  at 
all.  In  his  "  Italian  Travels  "  Goethe  jogs  along  at  a 
snail's  pace,  but  always  mindful  that  the  earth  is  be 
neath  and  the  heavens  are  above  him.  His  Italy  is  not 
merely  the  fatherland  of  lazzaroni  and  virtuosi,  and 
scene  of  splendid  ruins,  but  a  solid  turf-clad  soil,  daily 
shined  on  by  the  sun,  and  nightly  by  the  moon.  Even 
the  few  showers  are  faithfully  recorded.  He  speaks  as 
an  unconcerned  spectator,  whose  object  is  faithfully  to 


348  A  WEEK 

describe  what  he  sees,  and  that,  for  the  most  part,  in 
the  order  in  which  he  sees  it.  Even  his  reflections  do 
not  interfere  with  his  descriptions.  In  one  place  he 
speaks  of  himself  as  giving  so  glowing  and  truthful  a 
description  of  an  old  tower  to  the  peasants  who  had 
gathered  around  him,  that  tney  who  had  been  born 
and  brought  up  in  the  neighborhood  must  needs  look 
over  their  shoulders,  "that,"  to  use  his  own  words, 
"  they  might  behold  with  their  eyes,  what  I  had  praised 
to  their  ears,"  —  "  and  I  had  added  nothing,  not  even 
the  ivy  which  for  centuries  had  decorated  the  walls." 
It  would  thus  be  possible  for  inferior  minds  to  produce 
invaluable  books,  if  this  very  moderation  were  not  the 
evidence  of  superiority  ;  for  the  wise  are  not  so  much 
wiser  than  others  as  respecters  of  their  own  wisdom. 
Some,  poor  in  spirit,  record  plaintively  only  what  has 
happened  to  them  ;  but  others  how  they  have  hap 
pened  to  the  universe,  and  the  judgment  which  they 
have  awarded  to  circumstances.  Above  all,  he  pos 
sessed  a  hearty  good-will  to  all  men,  and  never  wrote  a 
cross  or  even  careless  word.  On  one  occasion  the  post 
boy  sniveling,  "  Signer,  perdonate,  questa  e  la  mia  pa- 
tria,"  he  confesses  that  "  to  me  poor  northerner  came 
something  tear-like  into  the  eyes." 

Goethe's  whole  education  and  life  were  those  of  the 
artist.  He  lacks  the  unconsciousness  of  the  poet.  In 
his  autobiography  he  describes  accurately  the  life  of 
the  author  of  Wilhelm  Meister.  For  as  there  is  in  that 
book,  mingled  with  a  rare  and  serene  wisdom,  a  certain 
pettiness  or  exaggeration  of  trifles,  wisdom  applied  to 
produce  a  constrained  and  partial  and  merely  well-bred 


THURSDAY  349 

man,  —  a  magnifying  of  the  theatre  till  life  itself  is 
turned  into  a  stage,  for  which  it  is  our  duty  to  study 
our  parts  well,  and  conduct  with  propriety  and  pre 
cision,  —  so  in  the  autobiography,  the  fault  of  his 
education  is,  so  to  speak,  its  merely  artistic  complete 
ness.  Nature  is  hindered,  though  she  prevails  at  last  in 
making  an  unusually  catholic  impression  on  the  boy. 
It  is  the  life  of  a  city  boy,  whose  toys  are  pictures  and 
works  of  art,  whose  wonders  are  the  theatre  and  kingly 
processions  and  crownings.  As  the  youth  studied  mi 
nutely  the  order  and  the  degrees  in  the  imperial  proces 
sion,  and  suffered  none  of  its  effect  to  be  lost  on  him,  so 
the  man  aimed  to  secure  a  rank  in  society  which  would 
satisfy  his  notion  of  fitness  and  respectability.  He 
was  defrauded  of  much  which  the  savage  boy  enjoys. 
Indeed,  he  himself  has  occasion  to  say  in  this  very 
autobiography,  when  at  last  he  escapes  into  the  woods 
without  the  gates :  "  Thus  much  is  certain,  that  only 
the  undefinable,  wide-expanding  feelings  of  youth  and 
of  uncultivated  nations  are  adapted  to  the  sublime, 
which,  whenever  it  may  be  excited  in  us  through  exter 
nal  objects,  since  it  is  either  formless,  or  else  moulded 
into  forms  which  are  incomprehensible,  must  surround 
us  with  a  grandeur  which  we  find  above  our  reach." 
He  further  says  of  himself:  "  I  had  lived  among  paint 
ers  from  my  childhood,  and  had  accustomed  myself 
to  look  at  objects,  as  they  did,  with  reference  to  art." 
And  this  was  his  practice  to  the  last.  He  was  even  too 
well-bred  to  be  thoroughly  bred.  He  says  that  he  had 
had  no  intercourse  with  the  lowest  class  of  his  towns- 
boys.  The  child  should  have  the  advantage  of  igno- 


350  A  WEEK 

ranee  as  well  as  of  knowledge,  and  is  fortunate  if  he 
gets  his  share  of  neglect  and  exposure. 

"The  laws  of  Nature  break  the  rules  of  Art." 

\  The  Man  of  Genius  may  at  the  same  time  be,  in 
deed  is  commonly,  an  Artist,  but  the  two  are  not  to 
be  confounded.  The  Man  of  Genius,  referred  to  man 
kind,  is  an  originator,  an  inspired  or  demonic  man, 
who  produces  a  perfect  work  in  obedience  to  laws  yet 
unexplored.  The  artist  is  he  who  detects  and  applies 
the  law  from  observation  of  the  works  of  Genius, 
whether  of  man  or  nature.  The  Artisan  is  he  who 
merely  applies  the  rules  which  others  have  detected. 
There  has  been  no  man  of  pure  Genius,  as  there  has 
been  none  wholly  destitute  of  Genius. 

Poetry  is  the  mysticism  of  mankind. 

The  expressions  of  the  poet  cannot  be  analyzed;  his 
sentence  is  one  word,  whose  syllables  are  words.  There 
are  indeed  no  words  quite  worthy  to  be  set  to  his  mu 
sic.  But  what  matter  if  we  do  not  hear  the  words 
always,  if  we  hear  the  music  ? 

Much  verse  fails  of  being  poetry  because  it  was  not 
written  exactly  at  the  right  crisis,  though  it  may  have 
been  inconceivably  near  to  it.  It  is  only  by  a  miracle 
that  poetry  is  written  at  all.  It  is  not  recoverable 
thought,  but  a  hue  caught  from  a  vaster  receding 
thought. 

A  poem  is  one  undivided,  unimpeded  expression 
fallen  ripe  into  literature,  and  it  is  undividedly  and 
unimpededly  received  by  those  for  whom  it  was  ma 
tured. 


THURSDAY  351 

If  you  can  speak  what  you  will  never  hear,  if  you 
can  write  what  you  will  never  read,  you  have  done 
rare  things. 

The  work  we  choose  should  be  our  own 
God  lets  alone. 

The  unconsciousness  of  man  is  the  consciousness  of 
God. 

Deep  are  the  foundations  of  sincerity.  Even  stone 
walls  have  their  foundation  below  the  frost. 

What  is  produced  by  a  free  stroke  charms  us,  like 
the  forms  of  lichens  and  leaves.  There  is  a  certain 
perfection  in  accident  which  we  never  consciously  at 
tain.  Draw  a  blunt  quill  filled  with  ink  over  a  sheet  of 
paper,  and  fold  the  paper  before  the  ink  is  dry,  trans 
versely  to  this  line,  and  a  delicately  shaded  and  regular 
figure  will  be  produced,  in  some  respects  more  pleasing 
than  an  elaborate  drawing. 

The  talent  of  composition  is  very  dangerous,  —  the 
striking  out  the  heart  of  life  at  a  blow,  as  the  Indian 
takes  off  a  scalp.  I  feel  as  if  my  life  had  grown  more 
outward  when  I  can  express  it. 

On  his  journey  from  Brenner  to  Verona,  Goethe 
writes :  "  The  Tees  flows  now  more  gently,  and  makes 
in  many  places  broad  sands.  On  the  land,  near  to 
the  water,  upon  the  hillsides,  everything  is  so  closely 
planted  one  to  another,  that  you  think  they  must  choke 
one  another,  —  vineyards,  maize,  mulberry-trees,  ap 
ples,  pears,  quinces,  and  nuts.  The  dwarf  elder  throws 
itself  vigorously  over  the  walls.  Ivy  grows  with  strong 
stems  up  the  rocks,  and  spreads  itself  wide  over  them, 


352  A  WEEK 

the  lizard  glides  through  the  intervals,  and  everything 
that  wanders  to  and  fro  reminds  one  of  the  loveliest 
pictures  of  art.  The  women's  tufts  of  hair  bound  up, 
the  men's  bare  breasts  and  light  jackets,  the  excellent 
oxen  which  they  drive  home  from  market,  the  little 
asses  with  their  loads,  —  everything  forms  a  living  ani 
mated  Heinrich  Roos.  And  now  that  it  is  evening,  in 
the  mild  air  a  few  clouds  rest  upon  the  mountains,  in 
the  heavens  more  stand  still  than  move,  and  immedi 
ately  after  sunset  the  chirping  of  crickets  begins  to 
grow  more  loud;  then  one  feels  for  once  at  home  in 
the  world,  and  not  as  concealed  or  in  exile.  I  am  con 
tented  as  though  I  had  been  born  and  brought  up  here, 
and  were  now  returning  from  a  Greenland  or  whaling 
voyage.  Even  the  dust  of  my  Fatherland,  which  is 
often  whirled  about  the  wagon,  and  which  for  so  long 
a  time  I  had  not  seen,  is  greeted.  The  clock-and-bell 
jingling  of  the  crickets  is  altogether  lovely,  penetrating, 
and  agreeable.  It  sounds  bravely  when  roguish  boys 
whistle  in  emulation  of  a  field  of  such  songstresses. 
One  fancies  that  they  really  enhance  one  another. 
Also  the  evening  is  perfectly  mild  as  the  day. 

"If  one  who  dwelt  in  the  south,  and  came  hither 
from  the  south,  should  hear  of  my  rapture  hereupon, 
he  would  deem  me  very  childish.  Alas!  what  I  here 
express  I  have  long  known  while  I  suffered  under  an 
unpropitious  heaven,  and  now  may  I  joyful  feel  this 
joy  as  an  exception,  which  we  should  enjoy  everforth 
as  an  eternal  necessity  of  our  nature. " 

Thus  we  "sayled  by  thought  and  pleasaunce,"  as 


THURSDAY  353 

Chaucer  says,  and  all  things  seemed  with  us  to  flow ; 
the  shore  itself  and  the  distant  cliffs  were  dissolved  by 
the  undiluted  air.  The  hardest  material  seemed  to  obey 
the  same  law  with  the  most  fluid,  and  so  indeed  in 
the  long  run  it  does.  Trees  were  but  rivers  of  sap  and 
woody  fibre,  flowing  from  the  atmosphere,  and  empty 
ing  into  the  earth  by  their  trunks,  as  their  roots  flowed 
upward  to  the  surface.  And  in  the  heavens  there  were 
rivers  of  stars,  and  milky  ways,  already  beginning  to 
gleam  and  ripple  over  our  heads.  There  were  rivers 
of  rock  on  the  surface  of  the  earth,  and  rivers  of  ore 
in  its  bowels,  and  our  thoughts  flowed  and  circulated, 
and  this  portion  of  time  was  but  the  current  hour.  Let 
us  wander  where  we  will,  the  universe  is  built  round 
about  us,  and  we  are  central  still.  If  we  look  into  the 
heavens  they  are  concave,  and  if  we  were  to  look  into 
a  gulf  as  bottomless,  it  would  be  concave  also.  The  sky 
is  curved  downward  to  the  earth  in  the  horizon,  because 
we  stand  on  the  plain.  I  draw  down  its  skirts.  The 
stars  so  low  there  seem  loath  to  depart,  but  by  a  cir 
cuitous  path  to  be  remembering  me,  and  returning  on 
their  steps. 

We  had  already  passed  by  broad  daylight  the  scene 
of  our  encampment  at  Coos  Falls,  and  at  length  we 
pitched  our  camp  on  the  west  bank,  in  the  northern 
part  of  Merrimack,  nearly  opposite  to  the  large  island 
on  which  we  had  spent  the  noon  in  our  way  up  the  river. 

There  we  went  to  bed  that  summer  evening,  on  a 
sloping  shelf  in  the  bank,  a  couple  of  rods  from  our 
boat,  which  was  drawn  up  on  the  sand,  and  just  behind 
a  thin  fringe  of  oaks  which  bordered  the  river ;  with- 


354  A  WEEK 

out  having  disturbed  any  inhabitants  but  the  spiders  in 
the  grass,  which  came  out  by  the  light  of  our  lamp,  and 
crawled  over  our  buffaloes.  When  we  looked  out  from 
under  the  tent,  the  trees  were  seen  dimly  through  the 
mist,  and  a  cool  dew  hung  upon  the  grass,  which  seemed 
to  rejoice  in  the  night,  and  with  the  damp  air  we  inhaled 
a  solid  fragrance.  Having  eaten  our  supper  of  hot  cocoa 
and  bread  and  watermelon,  we  soon  grew  weary  of  con 
versing,  and  writing  in  our  journals,  and  putting  out 
the  lantern  which  hung  from  the  tentpole,  fell  asleep. 

Unfortunately,  many  things  have  been  omitted  which 
should  have  been  recorded  in  our  journal  ;  for  though 
we  made  it  a  rule  to  set  down  all  our  experiences  therein, 
yet  such  a  resolution  is  very  hard  to  keep,  for  the  im 
portant  experience  rarely  allows  us  to  remember  such 
obligations,  and  so  indifferent  things  get  recorded,  while 
that  is  frequently  neglected.  It  is  not  easy  to  write  in  a 
journal  what  interests  us  at  any  time,  because  to  write 
it  is  not  what  interests  us. 

Whenever  we  awoke  in  the  night,  still  eking  out  our 
dreams  with  half-awakened  thoughts,  it  was  not  till 
after  an  interval,  when  the  wind  breathed  harder  than 
usual,  flapping  the  curtains  of  the  tent,  and  causing  its 
cords  to  vibrate,  that  we  remembered  that  we  lay  on 
the  bank  of  the  Merrimack,  and  not  in  our  chamber  at 
home.  With  our  heads  so  low  in  the  grass,  we  heard 
the  river  whirling  and  sucking,  and  lapsing  downward, 
kissing  the  shore  as  it  went,  sometimes  rippling  louder 
than  usual,  and  again  its  mighty  current  making  only 
a  slight  limpid,  trickling  sound,  as  if  our  water-pail  had 
sprung  a  leak,  and  the  water  were  flowing  into  the 


THURSDAY  355 

grass  by  our  side.  The  wind,  rustling  the  oaks  and 
hazels,  impressed  us  like  a  wakeful  and  inconsiderate 
person  up  at  midnight,  moving  about,  and  putting  things 
to  rights,  occasionally  stirring  up  whole  drawers  full  of 
leaves  at  a  puff.  There  seemed  to  be  a  great  haste  and 
preparation  throughout  Nature,  as  for  a  distinguished 
visitor  ;  all  her  aisles  had  to  be  swept  in  the  night  by 
a  thousand  handmaidens,  and  a  thousand  pots  to  be 
boiled  for  the  next  day's  feasting,  —  such  a  whispering 
bustle,  as  if  ten  thousand  fairies  made  their  fingers  fly, 
silently  sewing  at  the  new  carpet  with  which  the  earth 
was  to  be  clothed,  and  the  new  drapery  which  was  to 
adorn  the  trees.  And  then  the  wind  would  lull  and  die 
away,  and  we  like  it  fell  asleep  again. 


FRIDAY 

The  Boteman  strayt 

Held  on  his  course  with  stayed  stedf astnesse, 
Ne  ever  shroncke,  ne  ever  sought  to  bayt 
His  tryed  armes  for  toylesome  wearinesse; 
But  with -his  oares  did  sweepe  the  watry  wilderaesse. 

SPENSER. 

Summer's  robe  grows 
Dusky,  and  like  an  oft-dyed  garment  shows.  —  DONNE. 

As  we  lay  awake  long  before  daybreak,  listening  to 
the  rippling  of  the  river  and  the  rustling  of  the  leaves, 
in  suspense  whether  the  wind  blew  up  or  down  the 
stream,  was  favorable  or  unfavorable  to  our  voyage,  we 
already  suspected  that  there  was  a  change  in  the  weather, 
from  a  freshness  as  of  autumn  in  these  sounds.  The 
wind  in  the  woods  sounded  like  an  incessant  waterfall 
dashing  and  roaring  amid  rocks,  and  we  even  felt  en 
couraged  by  the  unusual  activity  of  the  element.  He 
who  hears  the  rippling  of  rivers  in  these  degenerate 
days  will  not  utterly  despair.  That  night  was  the  turn 
ing-point  in  the  season.  We  had  gone  to  bed  in  sum 
mer,  and  we  awoke  in  autumn  ;  for  summer  passes  into 
autumn  in  some  unimaginable  point  of  time,  like  the 
x  turning  of  a  leaf. 

We  found  our  boat  in  the  dawn  just  as  we  had  left 
it,  and  as  if  waiting  for  us,  there  on  the  shore,  in  au 
tumn,  all  cool  and  dripping  with  dew,  and  our  tracks 
still  fresh  in  the  wet  sand  around  it,  the  fairies  all  gone 
or  concealed.  Before  five  o'clock  we  pushed  it  into  the 


FRIDAY  357 

fog,  and,  leaping  in,  at  one  shove  were  out  of  sight  of 
the  shores,  and  began  to  sweep  downward  with  the 
rushing  river,  keeping  a  sharp  lookout  for  rocks.  We 
could  see  only  the  yellow  gurgling  water,  and  a  solid 
bank  of  fog  on  every  side,  forming  a  small  yard  around 
us.  We  soon  passed  the  mouth  of  the  Souhegan,  and 
the  village  of  Merrimack,  and  as  the  mist  gradually 
rolled  away,  and  we  were  relieved  from  the  trouble  of 
watching  for  rocks,  we  saw  by  the  flitting  clouds,  by  the 
first  russet  tinge  on  the  hills,  by  the  rushing  river,  the 
cottages  on  shore,  and  the  shore  itself,  so  coolly  fresh 
and  shining  with  dew,  and  later  in  the  day,  by  the  hue 
of  the  grape-vine,  the  goldfinch  on  the  willow,  the 
flickers  flying  in  flocks,  and  when  we  passed  near 
enough  to  the  shore,  as  we  fancied,  by  the  faces  of  men, 
that  the  fall  had  commenced.  The  cottages  looked 
more  snug  and  comfortable,  and  their  inhabitants  were 
seen  only  for  a  moment,  and  then  went  quietly  in  and 
shut  the  door,  retreating  inward  to  the  haunts  of  sum 
mer. 

"And  now  the  cold  autumnal  dews  are  seen 

To  cobweb  ev'ry  green; 
And  by  the  low-shorn  rowens  doth  appear 
The  fast-dechning  year." 

We  heard  the  sigh  of  the  first  autumnal  wind,  and 
even  the  water  had  acquired  a  grayer  hue.  The  su 
mach,  grape,  and  maple  were  already  changed,  and  the 
milkweed  had  turned  to  a  deep,  rich  yellow.  In  all 
woods  the  leaves  were  fast  ripening  for  their  fall ;  for 
their  full  veins  and  lively  gloss  mark  the  ripe  leaf  and 
not  the  sered  one  of  the  poets;  and  we  knew  that  the 


358  A  WEEK 

maples,  stripped  of  their  leaves  among  the  earliest, 
would  soon  stand  like  a  wreath  of  smoke  along  the  edge 
of  the  meadow.  Already  the  cattle  were  heard  to  low 
wildly  in  the  pastures  and  along  the  highways,  restlessly 
running  to  and  fro,  as  if  in  apprehension  of  the  with 
ering  of  the  grass  and  of  the  approach  of  winter.  Our 
thoughts,  too,  began  to  rustle. 

As  I  pass  along  the  streets  of  our  village  of  Concord 
on  the  day  of  our  annual  Cattle-Show,  when  it  usually 
happens  that  the  leaves  of  the  elms  and  buttonwoods 
begin  first  to  strew  the  ground  under  the  breath  of  the 
October  wind,  the  lively  spirits  in  their  sap  seem  to 
mount  as  high  as  any  plow-boy's  let  loose  that  day  ; 
and  they  lead  my  thoughts  away  to  the  rustling  woods, 
where  the  trees  are  preparing  for  their  winter  campaign. 
This  autumnal  festival,  when  men  are  gathered  in 
crowds  in  the  streets  as  regularly  and  by  as  natural  a 
law  as  the  leaves  cluster  and  rustle  by  the  wayside,  is 
naturally  associated  in  my  mind  with  the  fall  of  the 
year.  The  low  of  cattle  in  the  streets  sounds  like  a 
hoarse  symphony  or  running  bass  to  the  rustling  of  the 
leaves.  The  wind  goes  hurrying  down  the  country, 
gleaning  every  loose  straw  that  is  left  in  the  fields, 
while  every  farmer  lad  too  appears  to  scud  before  it, — 
having  donned  his  best  pea-jacket  and  pepper-and-salt 
waistcoat,  his  unbent  trousers,  outstanding  rigging  of 
duck  or  kerseymere  or  corduroy,  and  his  furry  hat 
withal,  —  to  country  fairs  and  cattle-shows,  to  that 
Rome  among  the  villages  where  the  treasures  of  the 
year  are  gathered.  All  the  land  over  they  go  leaping 
the  fences  with  their  tough,  idle  palms,  which  have 


FRIDAY  359 

never  learned  to  hang  by  their  sides,  amid  the  low  of 
calves  and  the  bleating  of  sheep,  —  Amos,  Abner,  El- 
nathan,  Elbridge,  — 

"  From  steep  pine-bearing  mountains  to  the  plain." 

I  love  these  sons  of  earth,  every  mother's  son  of  them, 
with  their  great  hearty  hearts  rushing  tumultuously  in 
herds  from  spectacle  to  spectacle,  as  if  fearful  lest  there 
should  not  be  time  between  sun  and  sun  to  see  them 
all,  and  the  sun  does  not  wait  more  than  in  haying- 
time. 

"Wise  Nature's  darlings,  they  live  in  the  world 
Perplexing  not  themselves  how  it  is  hurled." 

Running  hither  and  thither  with  appetite  for  the  coarse 
pastimes  of  the  day,  now  with  boisterous  speed  at  the 
heels  of  the  inspired  negro  from  whose  larynx  the  melo 
dies  of  all  Congo  and  Guinea  Coast  have  broke  loose 
into  our  streets  ;  now  to  see  the  procession  of  a  hun 
dred  yoke  of  oxen,  all  as  august  and  grave  as  Osiris,  or 
the  droves  of  neat  cattle  and  milch  cows  as  unspotted 
as  Isis  or  lo.  Such  as  had  no  love  for  Nature 

"at  all, 
Came  lovers  home  from  this  great  festival." 

They  may  bring  their  fattest  cattle  and  richest  fruits  to 
the  fair,  but  they  are  all  eclipsed  by  the  show  of  men. 
These  are  stirring  autumn  days,  when  men  sweep  by  in 
crowds,  amid  the  rustle  of  leaves  like  migrating  finches ; 
this  is  the  true  harvest  of  the  year,  when  the  air  is  but 
the  breath  of  men,  and  the  rustling  of  leaves  is  as 
the  trampling  of  the  crowd.  We  read  nowadays  of  the 
ancient  festivals,  games,  and  processions  of  the  Greeks 


360  A  WEEK 

and  Etruscans  with  a  little  incredulity,  or  at  least  with 
little  sympathy;  but  how  natural  and  irrepressible  in 
every  people  is  some  hearty  and  palpable  greeting  of 
Nature!  The  Corybantes,  the  Bacchantes,  the  rude 
primitive  tragedians  with  their  procession  and  goat-song, 
and  the  whole  paraphernalia  of  the  Panathensea,  which 
appear  so  antiquated  and  peculiar,  have  their  parallel 
now.  The  husbandman  is  always  a  better  Greek  than 
the  scholar  is  prepared  to  appreciate,  and  the  old  cus 
tom  still  survives,  while  antiquarians  and  scholars  grow 
gray  in  commemorating  it.  The  farmers  crowd  to  the 
fair  to-day  in  obedience  to  the  same  ancient  law,  which 
Solon  or  Lycurgus  did  not  enact,  as  naturally  as  bees 
swarm  and  follow  their  queen. 

It  is  worth  the  while  to  see  the  country's  people,  how 
they  pour  into  the  town,  the  sober  farmer  folk,  now  all 
agog,  their  very  shirt  and  coat  collars  pointing  forward, 
—  collars  so  broad  as  if  they  had  put  their  shirts  on 
wrong  end  upward,  for  the  fashions  always  tend  to 
superfluity,  —  and  with  an  unusual  springiness  in  their 
gait,  jabbering  earnestly  to  one  another.  The  more 
supple  vagabond,  too,  is  sure  to  appear  on  the  least  ru 
mor  of  such  a  gathering,  and  the  next  day  to  disappear, 
and  go  into  his  hole  like  the  seventeen-year  locust,  in 
an  ever-shabby  coat,  though  finer  than  the  farmer 's 
best,  yet  never  dressed;  come  to  see  the  sport,  and 
have  a  hand  in  what  is  going,  —  to  know  "  what 's  the 
row,"  if  there  is  any;  to  be  where  some  men  are  drunk, 
some  horses  race,  some  cockerels  fight;  anxious  to  be 
shaking  props  under  a  table  and  above  all  to  see  the 
"  striped  pig."  He  especially  is  the  creature  of  the  oc- 


FRIDAY  361 

casion.  He  empties  both  his  pockets  and  his  character 
into  the  stream,  and  swims  in  such  a  day.  He  dearly 
loves  the  social  slush.  There  is  no  reserve  of  soberness 
in  him. 

I  love  to  see  the  herd  of  men  feeding  heartily  on 
coarse  and  succulent  pleasures,  as  cattle  on  the  husks 
and  stalks  of  vegetables.  Though  there  are  many 
crooked  and  crabbed  specimens  of  humanity  among 
them,  run  all  to  thorn  and  rind,  and  crowded  out  of 
shape  by  adverse  circumstances,  like  the  third  chestnut 
in  the  bur,  so  that  you  wonder  to  see  some  heads  wear 
a  whole  hat,  yet  fear  not  that  the  race  will  fail  or 
waver  in  them;  like  the  crabs  which  grow  in  hedges, 
they  furnish  the  stocks  of  sweet  and  thrifty  fruits  still. 
Thus  is  nature  recruited  from  age  to  age,  while  the  fair 
and  palatable  varieties  die  out,  and  have  their  period. 
This  is  that  mankind.  How  cheap  must  be  the  ma 
terial  of  which  so  many  men  are  made ! 

The  wind  blew  steadily  down  the  stream,  so  that  we 
kept  our  sails  set,  and  lost  not  a  moment  of  the  fore 
noon  by  delays,  but  from  early  morning  until  noon 
were  continually  dropping  downward.  With  our  hands 
on  the  steering-paddle,  which  was  thrust  deep  into  the 
river,  or  bending  to  the  oar,  which  indeed  we  rarely 
relinquished,  we  felt  each  palpitation  in  the  veins  of 
our  steed,  and  each  impulse  of  the  wings  which  drew 
us  above.  The  current  of  our  thoughts  made  as  sudden 
bends  as  the  river,  which  was  continually  opening  new 
prospects  to  the  east  or  south,  but  we  are  aware  that 
rivers  flow  most  rapidly  and  shallowest  at  these  points. 


362  A  WEEK 

The  steadfast  shores  never  once  turned  aside  for  us, 
but  still  trended  as  they  were  made;  why  then  should 
we  always  turn  aside  for  them  ? 

A  man  cannot  wheedle  nor  overawe  his  Genius.  It 
requires  to  be  conciliated  by  nobler  conduct  than 
the  world  demands  or  can  appreciate.  These  winged 
thoughts  are  like  birds,  and  will  not  be  handled;  even 
hens  will  not  let  you  touch  them  like  quadrupeds. 
Nothing  was  ever  so  unfamiliar  and  startling  to  a 
man  as  his  own  thoughts. 

To  the  rarest  genius  it  is  the  most  expensive  to  suc 
cumb  and  conform  to  the  ways  of  the  world.  Genius 
is  the  worst  of  lumber,  if  the  poet  would  float  upon  the 
breeze  of  popularity.  The  bird  of  paradise  is  obliged 
constantly  to  fly  against  the  wind,  lest  its  gay  trappings, 
pressing  close  to  its  body,  impede  its  free  movements. 

He  is  the  best  sailor  who  can  steer  within  the  fewest 
poijits  of  the  wind,  and  extract  a  motive  power  out  of 
the  greatest  obstacles.  Most  begin  to  veer  and  tack  as 
soon  as  the  wind  changes  from  aft,  and  as  within  the 
tropics  it  does  not  blow  from  all  points  of  the  compass, 
there  are  some  harbors  which  they  can  never  reach. 

The  poet  is  no  tender  slip  of  fairy  stock,  who  re 
quires  peculiar  institutions  and  edicts  for  his  defense, 
but  the  toughest  son  of  earth  and  of  Heaven,  and  by 
his  greater  strength  and  endurance  his  fainting  com 
panions  will  recognize  the  God  in  him.  It  is  the  wor 
shipers  of  beauty,  after  all,  who  have  done  the  real 
pioneer  work  of  the  world. 

The  poet  will  prevail  to  be  popular  in  spite  of  his 
faults,  and  in  spite  of  his  beauties  too.  He  will  hit  the 


FRIDAY  363 

nail  on  the  head,  and  we  shall  not  know  the  shape  of 
his  hammer.  He  makes  us  free  of  his  hearth  and  heart, 
which  is  greater  than  to  offer  one  the  freedom  of  a  city. 

Great  men,  unknown  to  their  generation,  have  their 
fame  among  the  great  who  have  preceded  them,  and 
all  true  worldly  fame  subsides  from  their  high  estimate 
beyond  the  stars. 

Orpheus  does  not  hear  the  strains  which  issue  from 
his  lyre,  but  only  those  which  are  breathed  into  it;  for 
the  original  strain  precedes  the  sound,  by  as  much  as 
the  echo  follows  after.  The  rest  is  the  perquisite  of  the 
rocks  and  trees  and  beasts. 

When  I  stand  in  a  library  where  is  all  the  recorded 
wit  of  the  world,  but  none  of  the  recording,  a  mere  ac 
cumulated,  and  not  truly  cumulative  treasure;  where 
immortal  works  stand  side  by  side  with  anthologies 
which  did  not  survive  their  month,  and  cobweb  and 
mildew  have  already  spread  from  these  to  the  binding 
of  those;  and  happily  I  am  reminded  of  what  poetry 
is,  —  I  perceive  that  Shakespeare  and  Milton  did  not 
foresee  into  what  company  they  were  to  fall.  Alas! 
that  so  soon  the  work  of  a  true  poet  should  be  swept 
into  such  a  dust-hole ! 

The  poet  will  write  for  his  peers  alone.  He  will  re 
member  only  that  he  saw  truth  and  beauty  from  his 
position,  and  expect  the  time  when  a  vision  as  broad 
shall  overlook  the  same  field  as  freely. 

We  are  often  prompted  to  speak  our  thoughts  to  our 
neighbors,  or  the  single  travelers  whom  we  meet  on  the 
road,  but  poetry  is  a  communication  from  our  home 
and  solitude  addressed  to  all  Intelligence.  It  never 


364  A  WEEK 

whispers  in  a  private  ear.  Knowing  this  we  may  un 
derstand  those  sonnets  said  to  be  addressed  to  particu 
lar  persons,  or  "  To  a  Mistress's  Eyebrow."  Let  none 
feel  flattered  by  them.  For  poetry  write  love,  and  it 
will  be  equally  true. 

No  doubt  it  is  an  important  difference  between 
men  of  genius  or  poets,  and  men  not  of  genius, 
that  the  latter  are  unable  to  grasp  and  confront  the 
thought  which  visits  them.  But  it  is  because  it  is  too 
faint  for  expression,  or  even  conscious  impression. 
What  merely  quickens  or  retards  the  blood  in  their 
veins  and  fills  their  afternoons  with  pleasure,  they 
know  not  whence,  conveys  a  distinct  assurance  to  the 
finer  organization  of  the  poet. 

We  talk  of  genius  as  if  it  were  a  mere  knack,  and 
the  poet  could  only  express  what  other  men  conceived. 
But  in  comparison  with  his  task,  the  poet  is  the  least 
talented  of  any;  the  writer  of  prose  has  more  skill.  See 
what  talent  the  smith  has.  His  material  is  pliant  in 
his  hands.  When  the  poet  is  most  inspired,  is  stimu 
lated  by  an  aura  which  never  even  colors  the  afternoons 
of  common  men,  then  his  talent  is  all  gone,  and  he  is 
no  longer  a  poet.  The  gods  do  not  grant  him  any  skill 
more  than  another.  They  never  put  their  gifts  into  his 
hands,  but  they  encompass  and  sustain  him  with  their 
breath. 

To  say  that  God  has  given  a  man  many  and  great 
talents  frequently  means  that  he  has  brought  his  hea 
vens  down  within  reach  of  his  hands. 

When  the  poetic  frenzy  seizes  us,  we  run  and  scratch 
with  our  pen,  intent  only  on  worms,  calling  our  mates 


FRIDAY  365 

around  us,  like  the  cock,  and  delighting  in  the  dust  we 
make,  but  do  not  detect  where  the  jewel  lies,  which, 
perhaps,  we  have  in  the  mean  tune  cast  to  a  distance, 
or  quite  covered  up  again. 

The  poet's  body  even  is  not  fed  like  other  men's, 
but  he  sometimes  tastes  the  genuine  nectar  and  am 
brosia  of  the  gods,  and  lives  a  divine  life.  By  the 
healthful  and  invigorating  thrills  of  inspiration  his  life 
is  preserved  to  a  serene  old  age. 

Some  poems  are  for  holidays  only.  They  are  pol 
ished  and  sweet,  but  it  is  the  sweetness  of  sugar,  and 
not  such  as  toil  gives  to  sour  bread.  The  breath  with 
which  the  poet  utters  his  verse  must  be  that  by  which 
he  lives. 

Great  prose,  of  equal  elevation,  commands  our  re 
spect  more  than  great  verse,  since  it  implies  a  more 
permanent  and  level  height,  a  life  more  pervaded  with 
the  grandeur  of  the  thought.  The  poet  often  only 
makes  an  irruption,  like  a  Parthian,  and  is  off  again, 
shooting  while  he  retreats;  but  the  prose  writer  has 
conquered  like  a  Roman,  and  settled  colonies. 

The  true  poem  is  not  that  which  the  public  read. 
There  is  always  a  poem  not  printed  on  paper,  coinci 
dent  with  the  production  of  this,  stereotyped  in  the 
poet 's  life.  It  is  what  he  has  become  through  his  work. 
Not  how  is  the  idea  expressed  in  stone,  or  on  canvas 
or  paper,  is  the  question,  but  how  far  it  has  obtained 
form  and  expression  in  the  life  of  the  artist.  His  true  "^ 
work  will  not  stand  in  any  prince's  gallery. 

My  life  has  been  the  poem  I  would  have  writ, 
But  I  could  not  both  live  and  utter  it. 


366  A  WEEK 

THE   POET'S  DELAY 

In  vain  I  see  the  morning  rise, 

In  vain  observe  the  western  blaze, 
Who  idly  look  to  other  skies, 

Expecting  life  by  other  ways. 

Amidst  such  boundless  wealth  without, 

I  only  still  am  poor  within, 
The  birds  have  sung  their  summer  out, 

But  still  my  spring  does  not  begin. 

Shall  I  then  wait  the  autumn  wind, 

Compelled  to  seek  a  milder  day, 
And  leave  no  curious  nest  behind, 

No  woods  still  echoing  to  my  lay  ? 

This  raw  and  gusty  day,  and  the  creaking  of  the 
oaks  and  pines  on  shore,  reminded  us  of  more  north 
ern  climes  than  Greece,  and  more  wintry  seas  than  the 
jEgean. 

The  genuine  remains  of  Ossian,  or  those  ancient 
poems  which  bear  his  name,  though  of  less  fame  and 
extent,  are,  in  many  respects,  of  the  same  stamp  with 
the  Iliad  itself.  He  asserts  the  dignity  of  the  bard  no 
less  than  Homer,  and  in  his  era,  we  hear  of  no  other 
priest  than  he.  It  will  not  avail  to  call  him  a  heathen, 
because  he  personifies  the  sun  and  addresses  it;  and 
what  if  his  heroes  did  "  worship  the  ghosts  of  their 
fathers,"  their  thin,  airy,  and  unsubstantial  forms  ?  we 
worship  but  the  ghosts  of  our  fathers  in  more  substan 
tial  form.  We  cannot  but  respect  the  vigorous  faith  of 
those  heathen,  who  sternly  believed  somewhat,  and  are 
inclined  to  say  to  the  critics,  who  are  offended  by  their 
superstitious  rites,  Don't  interrupt  these  men's  prayers. 


FRIDAY  367 

As  if  we  knew  more  about  human  life  and  a  God,  than 
the  heathen  and  ancients !  Does  English  theology  con 
tain  the  recent  discoveries  ? 

Ossian  reminds  us  of  the  most  refined  and  rudest 
eras,  of  Homer,  Pindar,  Isaiah,  and  the  American  In 
dian.  In  his  poetry,  as  in  Homer's,  only  the  simplest 
and  most  enduring  features  of  humanity  are  seen,  such 
essential  parts  of  a  man  as  Stonehenge  exhibits  of  a 
temple;  we  see  the  circles  of  stone,  and  the  upright 
shaft  alone.  The  phenomena  of  life  acquire  almost  an 
unreal  and  gigantic  size  seen  through  his  mists.  Like 
all  older  and  grander  poetry,  it  is  distinguished  by  the 
few  elements  in  the  lives  of  its  heroes.  They  stand  on 
the  heath,  between  the  stars  and  the  earth,  shrunk  to 
the  bones  and  sinews.  The  earth  is  a  boundless  plain 
for  their  deeds.  They  lead  such  a  simple,  dry,  and 
everlasting  life,  as  hardly  needs  depart  with  the  flesh, 
but  is  transmitted  entire  from  age  to  age.  There  are 
but  few  objects  to  distract  their  sight,  and  their  life  is 
as  unincumbered  as  the  course  of  the  stars  they  gaze  at. 

"The  wrathful  kings,  on  cairns  apart,        . 
Look  forward  from  behind  their  shields, 
And  mark  the  wandering  stars, 
That  brilliant  westward  move." 

It  does  not  cost  much  for  these  heroes  to  live ;  they  do 
not  want  much  furniture.  They  are  such  forms  of  men 
only  as  can  be  seen  afar  through  the  mist,  and  have  no 
costume  nor  dialect,  but  for  language  there  is  the 
tongue  itself,  and  for  costume  there  are  always  the  skins 
of  beasts  and  the  bark  of  trees  to  be  had.  They  live 
out  their  years  by  the  vigor  of  their  constitutions.  They 


368  A  WEEK 

survive  storms  and  the  spears  of  their  foes,  and  per 
form  a  few  heroic  deeds,  and  then 

"Mounds  will  answer  questions  of  them, 
For  many  future  years." 

Blind  and  infirm,  they  spend  the  remnant  of  their  days 
listening  to  the  lays  of  the  bards,  and  feeling  the  weap 
ons  which  laid  their  enemies  low,  and  when  at  length 
they  die,  by  a  convulsion  of  nature,  the  bard  allows  us 
a  short  and  misty  glance  into  futurity,  yet  as  clear  per 
chance  as  their  lives  had  been.  When  MacRoine  was 
slain,  — 

"His  soul  departed  to  his  warlike  sires, 
To  follow  misty  forms  of  boars, 
In  tempestuous  islands  bleak." 

The  hero's  cairn  is  erected,  and  the  bard  sings  a  brief 
significant  strain,  which  will  suffice  for  epitaph  and 
biography. 

"The  weak  will  find  his  bow  in  the  dwelling, 
The  feeble  will  attempt  to  bend  it." 

Compared  with  this  simple,  fibrous  life,  our  civilized 
history  appears  the  chronicle  of  debility,  of  fashion, 
and  the  arts  of  luxury.  But  the  civilized  man  misses 
no  real  refinement  in  the  poetry  of  the  rudest  era.  It 
reminds  him  that  civilization  does  but  dress  men.  It 
makes  shoes,  but  it  does  not  toughen  the  soles  of  the 
feet.  It  makes  cloth  of  finer  texture,  but  it  does  not 
touch  the  skin.  Inside  the  civilized  man  stands  the 
savage  still  in  the  place  of  honor.  We  are  those  blue- 
eyed,  yellow-haired  Saxons,  those  slender,  dark-haired 
Normans. 


FRIDAY  369 

The  profession  of  the  bard  attracted  more  respect 
in  those  days  from  the  importance  attached  to  fame. 
It  was  his  province  to  record  the  deeds  of  heroes. 
When  Ossian  hears  the  traditions  of  inferior  bards, 
he  exclaims,  — 

"I  straightway  seize  the  unfutile  tales, 
And  send  them  down  in  faithful  verse." 

His  philosophy  of  life  is  expressed  in  the  opening  of  the 

third  Duan  of  Ca-Lodin. 

* 

"Whence  have  sprung  the  things  that  are? 
And  whither  roll  the  passing  years  ? 
Where  does  Time  conceal  its  two  heads, 
In  dense  impenetrable  gloom, 
Its  surface  marked  with  heroes'  deeds  alone? 
I  view  the  generations  gone; 
The  past  appears  but  dim; 
As  objects  by  the  moon's  faint  beams, 
Reflected  from  a  distant  lake. 
I  see,  indeed,  the  thunderbolts  of  war, 
But  there  the  unmighty  joyless  dwell, 
All  those  who  send  not  down  their  deeds 
To  far,  succeeding  times." 

The  ignoble  warriors  die  and  are  forgotten :  — 

"Strangers  come  to  build  a  tower, 

And  throw  their  ashes  overhand; 

Some  rusted  swords  appear  in  dust, 

One,  bending  forward,  says, 
'The  arms  belonged  to  heroes  gone; 

We  never  heard  their  praise  in  song.' " 

The  grandeur  of  the  similes  is  another  feature  which 
characterizes  great  poetry.  Ossian  seems  to  speak  a 
gigantic  and  universal  language.  The  images  and  pic 
tures  occupy  even  much  space  in  the  landscape,  as  if 


370  A  WEEK 

they  could  be  seen  only  from  the  sides  of  mountains, 
and  plains  with  a  wide  horizon,  or  across  arms  of  the 
sea.  The  machinery  is  so  massive  that  it  cannot  be  less 
than  natural.  Oivana  says  to  the  spirit  of  her  father, 
"  Gray-haired  Torkil  of  Torne,"  seen  in  the  skies,  — 

"Thou  glidest  away  like  receding  ships." 

So  when  the  hosts  of  Fingal  and  Starne  approach  to 
battle,  - 

"With  murmurs  loud,  like  rivers  far, 
The  race  of  Tome  hither  moved." 

And  when  compelled  to  retire,  — 

"dragging  his  spear  behind, 
Cudulin  sank  in  the  distant  wood, 
Like  a  fire  upblazing  ere  it  dies." 

Nor  did  Fingal  want  a  proper  audience  when  he  spoke : 

"A  thousand  orators  inclined 
To  hear  the  lay  of  Fingal." 

The  threats  too  would  have  deterred  a  man.  Ven 
geance  and  terror  were  real.  Trenmore  threatens  the 
young  warrior  whom  he  meets  on  a  foreign  strand,  — 

"Thy  mother  shall  find  thee  pale  on  the  shore, 
While  lessening  on  the  waves  she  spies 
The  sails  of  him  who  slew  her  son." 

If  Ossian's  heroes  weep,  it  is  from  excess  of  strength, 
and  not  from  weakness,  a  sacrifice  or  libation  of  fertile 
natures,  like  the  perspiration  of  stone  in  summer's 
heat.  We  hardly  know  that  tears  have  been  shed,  and 
it  seems  as  if  weeping  were  proper  only  for  babes  and 


FRIDAY 


371 


heroes.  Their  joy  and  their  sorrow  are  made  of  one 
stuff,  like  rain  and  snow,  the  rainbow  and  the  mist. 
When  Fillan  was  worsted  in  fight,  and  ashamed  in  the 
presence  of  Fingal,  — 

"He  strode  away  forthwith, 
And  bent  in  grief  above  a  stream, 
His  cheeks  bedewed  with  tears, 
From  time  to  time  the  thistles  gray 
He  lopped  with  his  inverted  lance." 

Crodar,  blind  and  old,  receives  Ossian,  son  of  Fingal, 
who  comes  to  aid  him  in  war :  — 

"'My  eyes  have  failed,'  says  he,  'Crodar  is  blind, 
Is  thy  strength  like  that  of  thy  fathers? 
Stretch,  Ossian,  thine  arm  to  the  hoary-haired.' 

I  gave  my  arm  to  the  king. 
The  aged  hero  seized  my  hand; 
He  heaved  a  heavy  sigh; 
Tears  flowed  incessant  down  his  cheek. 
'  Strong  art  thou,  son  of  the  mighty, 
Though  not  so  dreadful  as  Morven's  prince. 


Let  my  feast  be  spread  in  the  hall, 
Let  every  sweet-voiced  minstrel  sing; 
Great  is  he  who  is  within  my  walls, 
Sons  of  wave-echoing  Croma.' " 

Even  Ossian  himself,  the  hero-bard,  pays  tribute  to  the 
superior  strength  of  his  father  Fingal. 

"How  beauteous,  mighty  man,  was  thy  mind, 
Why  succeeded  Ossian  without  its  strength?" 


While  we  sailed  fleetly  before  the  wind,  with  the 
river  gurgling  under  our  stern,  the  thoughts  of  autumn 


372  A  WEEK 

coursed  as  steadily  through  our  minds,  and  we  ob 
served  less  what  was  passing  on  the  shore  than  the 
dateless  associations  and  impressions  which  the  season 
awakened,  anticipating  in  some  measure  the  progress 
of  the  year. 

I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears, 

And  sight,  who  had  but  eyes  before, 
I  moments  live,  who  lived  but  years, 

And  truth  discern,  who  knew  but  learning's  lore. 

Sitting  with  our  faces  now  up-stream,  we  studied  the 
landscape  by  degrees,  as  one  unrolls  a  map, — rock, 
tree,  house,  hill,  and  meadow  assuming  new  and  vary 
ing  positions  as  wind  and  water  shifted  the  scene,  and 
there  was  variety  enough  for  our  entertainment  in  the 
metamorphoses  of  the  simplest  objects.  Viewed  from 
this  side  the  scenery  appeared  new  to  us. 

The  most  familiar  sheet  of  water,  viewed  from  a 
new  hilltop,  yields  a  novel  and  unexpected  pleasure. 
When  we  have  traveled  a  few  miles,  we  do  not  recog 
nize  the  profiles  even  of  the  hills  which  overlook  our 
native  village,  and  perhaps  no  man  is  quite  familiar 
with  the  horizon  as  seen  from  the  hill  nearest  to  his 
house,  and  can  recall  its  outline  distinctly  when  in  the 
valley.  We  do  not  commonly  know,  beyond  a  short 
distance,  which  way  the  hills  range  which  take  in  our 
houses  and  farms  in  their  sweep.  As  if  our  birth  had 
at  first  sundered  things,  and  we  had  been  thrust  up 
through  into  nature  like  a  wedge,  and  not  till  the 
wound  heals  and  the  scar  disappears  do  we  begin  to 
discover  where  we  are,  and  that  nature  is  one  and  con 
tinuous  everywhere.  It  is  an  important  epoch  when  a 


On  the  Banks  of  the  Merrimac 


tkripating  in 


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m,  we  studied  tiie 


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FRIDAY  373 

man  who  has  always  lived  on  the  east  side  of  a  moun 
tain,  and  seen  it  in  the  west,  travels  round  and  sees  it 
in  the  east.  Yet  the  universe  is  a  sphere  whose  centre 
is  wherever  there  is  intelligence.  The  sun  is  not  so 
central  as  a  man.  Upon  an  isolated  hilltop,  in  an  open 
country,  we  seem  to  ourselves  to  be  standing  on  the 
boss  of  an  immense  shield,  the  immediate  landscape 
being  apparently  depressed  below  the  more  remote, 
and  rising  gradually  to  the  horizon,  which  is  the  rim 
of  the  shield,  —  villas,  steeples,  forests,  mountains,  one 
above  another,  till  they  are  swallowed  up  in  the  heav 
ens.  The  most  distant  mountains  in  the  horizon  ap 
pear  to  rise  directly  from  the  shore  of  that  lake  in  the 
woods  by  which  we  chance  to  be  standing,  while  from 
the  mountain-top,  not  only  this,  but  a  thousand  nearer 
and  larger  lakes  are  equally  unobserved. 

Seen  through  this  clear  atmosphere,  the  works  of  the 
farmer,  his  plowing  and  reaping,  had  a  beauty  to  our 
eyes  which  he  never  saw.  How  fortunate  were  we  who 
did  not  own  an  acre  of  these  shores,  who  had  not  re 
nounced  our  title  to  the  whole !  One  who  knew  how  to 
appropriate  the  true  value  of  this  world  would  be  the 
poorest  man  in  it.  The  poor  rich  man!  all  he  has  is 
what  he  has  bought.  What  I  see  is  mine.  I  am  a 
large  owner  in  the  Merrimack  intervals. 

Men  dig  and  dive  but  cannot  my  wealth  spend, 

Who  yet  no  partial  store  appropriate, 
Who  no  armed  ship  into  the  Indies  send, 

To  rob  me  of  my  orient  estate. 

He  is  the  rich  man,  and  enjoys  the  fruits  of  riches, 
who  summer  and  winter  forever  can  find  delight  in  his 


374  A  WEEK 

own  thoughts.  Buy  a  farm!  What  have  I  to  pay  for  a 
farm  which  a  farmer  will  take  ? 

When  I  visit  again  some  haunt  of  my  youth,  I  am 
glad  to  find  that  nature  wears  so  well.  The  landscape 
is  indeed  something  real,  and  solid,  and  sincere,  and  I 
have  not  put  my  foot  through  it  yet.  There  is  a  pleas 
ant  tract  on  the  bank  of  the  Concord,  called  Conantum, 
which  I  have  in  my  mind,  —  the  old  deserted  farmhouse, 
the  desolate  pasture  with  its  bleak  cliff,  the  open  wood, 
the  river-reach,  the  green  meadow  in  the  midst ,  and 
the  moss-grown  wild-apple  orchard,  —  places  where  one 
may  have  many  thoughts  and  not  decide  anything.  It 
is  a  scene  which  I  can  not  only  remember,  as  I  might 
a  vision,  but  when  I  will  can  bodily  revisit,  and  find  it 
even  so,  unaccountable,  yet  unpretending  in  its  pleasant 
dreariness.  When  my  thoughts  are  sensible  of  change, 
I  love  to  see  and  sit  on  rocks  which  I  have  known,  and 
pry  into  their  moss,  and  see  unchangeableness  so  estab 
lished.  I  not  yet  gray  on  rocks  forever  gray,  I  no  longer 
green  under  the  evergreens.  There  is  something  even 
in  the  lapse  of  time  by  which  time  recovers  itself. 

As  we  have  said,  it  proved  a  cool  as  well  as  breezy 
day,  and  by  the  time  we  reached  Penichook  Brook 
we  were  obliged  to  sit  muffled  in  our  cloaks,  while 
the  wind  and  current  carried  us  along.  We  bounded 
swiftly  over  the  rippling  surface,  far  by  many  cultivated 
lands  and  the  ends  of  fences  which  divided  innumerable 
farms,  with  hardly  a  thought  for  the  various  lives  which 
they  separated;  now  by  long  rows  of  alders  or  groves 
of  pines  or  oaks,  and  now  by  some  homestead  where 
the  women  and  children  stood  outside  to  gaze  at  us, 


FRIDAY  375 

till  we  had  swept  out  of  their  sight,  and  beyond  the 
limit  of  their  longest  Saturday  ramble.  We  glided  past 
the  mouth  of  the  Nashua,  and  not  long  after,  of  Salmon 
Brook,  without  more  pause  than  the  wind. 

Salmon  Brook, 
Penichook, 

Ye  sweet  waters  of  my  brain, 
When  shall  I  look, 
Or  cast  the  hook, 
In  your  waves  again  ? 

Silver  eels, 
Wooden  creels, 

These  the  bates  that  still  allure, 
And  dragon-fly 
That  floated  by, 
May  they  still  endure  ? 

The  shadows  chased  one  another  swiftly  over  wood 
and  meadow,  and  their  alternation  harmonized  with  our 
mood.  We  could  distinguish  the  clouds  which  cast  each 
one,  though  never  so  high  in  the  heavens.  When  a  shadow 
flits  across  the  landscape  of  the  soul  where  is  the  sub 
stance  ?  Probably,  if  we  were  wise  enough,  we  should 
see  to  what  virtue  we  are  indebted  for  any  happier  mo 
ment  we  enjoy.  No  doubt  we  have  earned  it  at  some 
tune,  for  the  gifts  of  Heaven  are  never  quite  gratui 
tous.  The  constant  abrasion  and  decay  of  our  lives 
makes  the  soil  of  our  future  growth.  The  wood  which 
we  now  mature,  when  it  becomes  virgin  mould,  deter 
mines  the  character  of  our  second  growth,  whether  that 
be  oaks  or  pines.  Every  man  casts  a  shadow;  not  his 
body  only,  but  his  imperfectly  mingled  spirit.  This  is 


376  A  WEEK 

his  grief.  Let  him  turn  which  way  he  will,  it  falls  op 
posite  to  the  sun;  short  at  noon,  long  at  eve.  Did 
you  never  see  it  ?  But,  referred  to  the  sun,  it  is  widest 
at  its  base,  which  is  no  greater  than  his  own  capacity. 
The  divine  light  is  diffused  almost  entirely  around  us, 
and  by  means  of  the  refraction  of  light,  or  else  by  a 
certain  self-luminousness,  or,  as  some  will  have  it,  trans 
parency,  if  we  preserve  ourselves  untarnished,  we  are 
able  to  enlighten  our  shaded  side.  At  any  rate,  our 
darkest  grief  has  that  bronze  color  of  the  moon  eclipsed. 
There  is  no  ill  which  may  not  be  dissipated,  like  the 
dark,  if  you  let  in  a  stronger  light  upon  it.  Shadows, 
referred  to  the  source  of  light,  are  pyramids  whose 
bases  are  never  greater  than  those  of  the  substances 
which  cast  them,  but  light  is  a  spherical  congeries  of 
pyramids,  whose  very  apexes  are  the  sun  itself,  and 
hence  the  system  shines  with  uninterrupted  light.  But 
if  the  light  we  use  is  but  a  paltry  and  narrow  taper, 
most  objects  will  cast  a  shadow  wider  than  them 
selves. 

The  places  where  we  had  stopped  or  spent  the  night 
in  our  way  up  the  river  had  already  acquired  a  slight 
historical  interest  for  us;  for  many  upward  days'  voy 
aging  were  unraveled  in  this  rapid  downward  passage. 
When  one  landed  to  stretch  his  limbs  by  walking,  he 
soon  found  himself  falling  behind  his  companion,  and 
was  obliged  to  take  advantage  of  the  curves,  and  ford 
the  brooks  and  ravines  in  haste,  to  recover  his  ground. 
Already  the  banks  and  the  distant  meadows  wore  a 
sober  and  deepened  tinge,  for  the  September  air  had 
shorn  them  of  their  summer 's  pride. 


FRIDAY  377 

"And  what's  a  life?   The  flourishing  array 
Of  the  proud  summer  meadow,  which  to-day 
Wears  her  green  plush,  and  is  to-morrow  hay." 

The  air  was  really  the  "  fine  element "  which  the  poets 
describe.  It  had  a  finer  and  sharper  grain,  seen  against 
the  russet  pastures  and  meadows,  than  before,  as  if 
cleansed  of  the  summer's  impurities. 

Having  passed  the  New  Hampshire  line  and  reached 
the  Horseshoe  Interval  in  Tyngsborough,  where  there 
is  a  high  and  regular  second  bank,  we  climbed  up  this 
in  haste  to  get  a  nearer  sight  of  the  autumnal  flowers, 
asters,  goldenrod,  and  yarrow,  and  blue-curls  (Tricho- 
stema  dichotomum) ,  humble  roadside  blossoms,  and, 
lingering  still,  the  harebell  and  the  Rhexia  Virginica. 
The  last,  growing  in  patches  of  lively  pink  flowers  on 
the  edge  of  the  meadows,  had  almost  too  gay  an  ap 
pearance  for  the  rest  of  the  landscape,  like  a  pink  rib 
bon  on  the  bonnet  of  a  Puritan  woman.  Asters  and 
goldenrods  were  the  livery  which  nature  wore  at  pre 
sent.  The  latter  alone  expressed  all  the  ripeness  of  the 
season,  and  shed  their  mellow  lustre  over  the  fields,  as 
if  the  now  declining  summer's  sun  had  bequeathed  its 
hues  to  them.  It  is  the  floral  solstice  a  little  after  mid 
summer,  when  the  particles  of  golden  light,  the  sun- 
dust,  have,  as  it  were,  fallen  like  seeds  on  the  earth, 
and  produced  these  blossoms.  On  every  hillside,  and 
in  every  valley,  stood  countless  asters,  coreopses,  tansies, 
goldenrods,  and  the  whole  race  of  yellow  flowers,  like 
Brahminical  devotees,  turning  steadily  with  their  lumi 
nary  from  morning  till  night. 


378  A  WEEK 

"I  see  the  goldenrod  shine  bright, 

As  sun-showers  at  the  birth  of  day, 
A  golden  plume  of  yellow  light, 
That  robs  the  Day-god's  splendid  ray. 

"The  aster's  violet  rays  divide 

The  bank  with  many  stars  for  me, 
And  yarrow  in  blanch  tints  is  dyed, 
As  moonlight  floats  across  the  sea. 

"I  see  the  emerald  woods  prepare 

To  shed  their  vestiture  once  more, 
And  distant  elm-trees  spot  the  air 
With  yellow  pictures  softly  o'er. 


"No  more  the  water-lily's  pride 

In  milk-white  circles  swims  content, 
No  more  the  blue-weed's  clusters  ride 
And  mock  the  heavens'  element. 

"Autumn,  thy  wreath  and  mine  are  blent 

With  the  same  colors,  for  to  me 
A  richer  sky  than  all  is  lent, 

While  fades  my  dream-like  company. 

"Our  skies  glow  purple,  but  the  wind 

Sobs  chill  through  green  trees  and  bright  grass, 
To-day  shines  fair,  and  lurk  behind 
The  times  that  into  winter  pass. 

"So  fair  we  seem,  so  cold  we  are, 

So  fast  we  hasten  to  decay, 
Yet  through  our  night  glows  many  a  star, 
That  still  shall  claim  its  sunny  day." 

So  sang  a  Concord  poet  once. 

There  is  a  peculiar  interest  belonging  to  the  still 
later  flowers,  which   abide  with  us  the  approach   of 


FRIDAY  379 

winter.  There  is  something  witchlike  in  the  appear 
ance  of  the  witch-hazel,  which  blossoms  late  in  Octo 
ber  and  in  November,  with  its  irregular  and  angular 
spray  and  petals  like  furies'  hair,  or  small  ribbon 
streamers.  Its  blossoming,  too,  at  this  irregular  period, 
when  other  shrubs  have  lost  their  leaves,  as  well  as 
blossoms,  looks  like  witches'  craft.  Certainly  it  blooms 
in  no  garden  of  man's.  There  is  a  whole  fairy-land  on 
the  hillside  where  it  grows. 

Some  have  thought  that  the  gales  do  not  at  present 
waft  to  the  voyager  the  natural  and  original  fragrance 
of  the  land,  such  as  the  early  navigators  described, 
and  that  the  loss  of  many  odoriferous  native  plants, 
sweet-scented  grasses  and  medicinal  herbs,  which  for 
merly  sweetened  the  atmosphere,  and  rendered  it  salu 
brious,  —  by  the  grazing  of  cattle  and  the  rooting  of 
swine,  —  is  the  source  of  many  diseases  which  now  pre 
vail  ;  the  earth,  say  they,  having  been  long  subjected 
to  extremely  artificial  and  luxurious  modes  of  cultiva 
tion,  to  gratify  the  appetite,  converted  into  a  stye  and 
hotbed,  where  men  for  profit  increase  the  ordinary 
decay  of  nature. 

According  to  the  record  of  an  old  inhabitant  of 
Tyngsborough,  now  dead,  whose  farm  we  were  now 
gliding  past,  one  of  the  greatest  freshets  on  this  river 
took  place  in  October,  1785,  and  its  height  was  marked 
by  a  nail  driven  into  an  apple  tree  behind  his  house. 
One  of  his  descendants  has  shown  this  to  me,  and  I 
judged  it  to  be  at  least  seventeen  or  eighteen  feet  above 
the  level  of  the  river  at  the  time.  According  to  Barber, 


380  A  WEEK 

the  river  rose  twenty-one  feet  above  the  common  high- 
water  mark  at  Bradford  in  the  year  1818.  Before  the 
Lowell  and  Nashua  railroad  was  built,  the  engineer 
made  inquiries  of  the  inhabitants  along  the  banks  as  to 
how  high  they  had  known  the  river  to  rise.  When  he 
came  to  this  house  he  was  conducted  to  the  apple  tree, 
and  as  the  nail  was  not  then  visible,  the  lady  of  the 
house  placed  her  hand  on  the  trunk  where  she  said 
that  she  remembered  the  nail  to  have  been  from  her 
childhood.  In  the  meanwhile  the  old  man  put  his  arm 
inside  the  tree,  which  was  hollow,  and  felt  the  point  of 
the  nail  sticking  through,  and  it  was  exactly  opposite 
to  her  hand.  The  spot  is  now  plainly  marked  by  a 
notch  in  the  bark.  But  as  no  one  else  remembered  the 
river  to  have  risen  so  high  as  this,  the  engineer  disre 
garded  this  statement,  and  I  learn  that  there  has  since 
been  a  freshet  which  rose  within  nine  inches  of  the 
rails  at  Biscuit  Brook,  and  such  a  freshet  as  that  of 
1785  would  have  covered  the  railroad  two  feet  deep. 

The  revolutions  of  nature  tell  as  fine  tales,  and 
make  as  interesting  revelations,  on  this  river's  banks,  as 
on  the  Euphrates  or  the  Nile.  This  apple  tree,  which 
stands  within  a  few  rods  of  the  river,  is  called  "  Elisha's 
apple  tree,"  from  a  friendly  Indian  who  was  anciently 
in  the  service  of  Jonathan  Tyng,  and,  with  one  other 
man,  was  killed  here  by  his  own  race  in  one  of  the  Indian 
wars,  —  the  particulars  of  which  affair  were  told  us  on 
the  spot.  He  was  buried  close  by,  no  one  knew  exactly 
where,  but  in  the  flood  of  1785,  so  great  a  weight  of 
water  standing  over  the  grave  caused  the  earth  to  set 
tle  where  it  had  once  been  disturbed,  and  when  the 


FRIDAY  381 

flood  went  down,  a  sunken  spot,  exactly  of  the  form 
and  size  of  the  grave,  revealed  its  locality  ;  but  this  was 
now  lost  again,  and  no  future  flood  can  detect  it ; 
yet,  no  doubt,  nature  will  know  how  to  point  it  out 
in  due  time,  if  it  be  necessary,  by  methods  yet  more 
searching  and  unexpected.  Thus  there  is  not  only  the 
crisis  when  the  spirit  ceases  to  inspire  and  expand  the 
body,  marked  by  a  fresh  mound  in  the  churchyard, 
but  there  is  also  a  crisis  when  the  body  ceases  to  take 
up  room  as  such  in  nature,  marked  by  a  fainter  de 
pression  in  the  earth. 

We  sat  awhile  to  rest  us  here  upon  the  brink  of  the 
western  bank,  surrounded  by  the  glossy  leaves  of  the 
red  variety  of  the  mountain  laurel,  just  above  the  head 
of  Wicasuck  Island,  where  we  could  observe  some 
scows  which  were  loading  with  clay  from  the  opposite 
shore,  and  also  overlook  the  grounds  of  the  farmer,  of 
whom  I  have  spoken,  who  once  hospitably  entertained 
us  for  a  night.  He  had  on  his  pleasant  farm,  besides 
an  abundance  of  the  beach  plum,  or  Prunus  littomlis, 
which  grew  wild,  the  Canada  plum  under  cultivation, 
fine  Porter  apples,  some  peaches  and  large  patches  of 
musk  and  water  melons,  which  he  cultivated  for  the 
Lowell  market.  Elisha's  apple  tree,  too,  bore  a  native 
fruit,  which  was  prized  by  the  family  ;  he  raised  the 
blood  peach,  which,  as  he  showed  us  with  satisfaction, 
was  more  like  the  oak  in  the  color  of  its  bark  and  in 
the  setting  of  its  branches,  and  was  less  liable  to  break 
down  under  the  weight  of  the  fruit,  or  the  snow,  than 
other  varieties.  It  was  of  slower  growth,  and  its 
branches  strong  and  tough.  There,  also,  was  his  nurs- 


382  A  WEEK 

ery  of  native  apple  trees,  thickly  set  upon  the  bank, 
which  cost  but  little  care,  and  which  he  sold  to  the 
neighboring  farmers  when  they  were  five  or  six  years 
old.  To  see  a  single  peach  upon  its  stem  makes  an 
impression  of  paradisaical  fertility  and  luxury.  This 
reminded  us  even  of  an  old  Roman  farm,  as  de 
scribed  by  Varro  :  "  Caesar  Vopiscus  ^Edilicius,  when 
he  pleaded  before  the  Censors,  said  that  the  grounds 
of  Rosea  were  the  garden  (sumen,  the  tidbit)  of  Italy, 
in  which  a  pole  being  left  would  not  be  visible  the  day 
after,  on  account  of  the  growth  of  the  herbage."  This 
soil  may  not  have  been  remarkably  fertile,  yet  at  this 
distance  we  thought  that  this  anecdote  might  be  told 
of  the  Tyngsborough  farm. 

When  we  passed  Wicasuck  Island,  there  was  a  plea 
sure  boat  containing  a  youth  and  a  maiden  on  the 
island  brook,  which  we  were  pleased  to  see,  since  it 
proved  that  there  were  some  hereabouts  to  whom  our 
excursion  would  not  be  wholly  strange.  Before  this,  a 
canal-boatman,  of  whom  we  made  some  inquiries  re 
specting  Wicasuck  Island,  and  who  told  us  that  it  was 
disputed  property,  suspected  that  we  had  a  claim  upon 
it,  and  though  we  assured  him  that  all  this  was  news 
to  us,  and  explained,  as  well  as  we  could,  why  we  had 
come  to  see  it,  he  believed  not  a  word  of  it,  and  seri 
ously  offered  us  one  hundred  dollars  for  our  title.  The 
only  other  small  boats  which  we  met  with  were  used 
to  pick  up  driftwood.  Some  of  the  poorer  class  along 
the  stream  collect,  in  this  way,  all  the  fuel  which  they 
require.  While  one  of  us  landed  not  far  from  this  island 
to  forage  for  provisions  among  the  farmhouses  whose 


FRIDAY  383 

roofs  we  saw,  —  for  our  supply  was  now  exhausted,  — 
the  other,  sitting  in  the  boat,  which  was  moored  to  the 
shore,  was  left  alone  to  his  reflections. 

If  there  is  nothing  new  on  the  earth,  still  the  traveler 
always  has  a  resource  in  the  skies.  They  are  con 
stantly  turning  a  new  page  to  view.  The  wind  sets  the 
types  on  this  blue  ground,  and  the  inquiring  may  al 
ways  read  a  new  truth  there.  There  are  things  there 
written  with  such  fine  and  subtle  tinctures,  paler  than 
the  juice  of  limes,  that  to  the  diurnal  eye  they  leave  no 
trace,  and  only  the  chemistry  of  night  reveals  them. 
Every  man's  daylight  firmament  answers  in  his  mind 
to  the  brightness  of  the  vision  in  his  starriest  hour. 

These  continents  and  hemispheres  are  soon  run  over, 
but  an  always  unexplored  and  infinite  region  makes 
off  on  every  side  from  the  mind,  further  than  to  sun 
set,  and  we  can  make  no  highway  or  beaten  track  into 
it,  but  the  grass  immediately  springs  up  in  the  path, 
for  we  travel  there  chiefly  with  our  wings. 

Sometimes  we  see  objects  as  through  a  thin  haze,  in 
their  eternal  relations,  and  they  stand  like  Palenque 
and  the  Pyramids,  and  we  wonder  who  set  them  up, 
and  for  what  purpose.  If  we  see  the  reality  in  things, 
of  what  moment  is  the  superficial  and  apparent  longer  ? 
What  are  the  earth  and  all  its  interests  beside  the  deep 
surmise  which  pierces  and  scatters  them  ?  While  I  sit 
here  listening  to  the  waves  which  ripple  and  break  on 
this  shore,  I  am  absolved  from  all  obligation  to  the 
past,  and  the  council  of  nations  may  reconsider  its  votes. 
The  grating  of  a  pebble  annuls  them.  Still  occasion 
ally  in  my  dreams  I  remember  that  rippling  water. 


384  A  WEEK 

Oft  as  I  turn  me  on  my  pillow  o'er 
I  hear  the  lapse  of  waves  upon  the  shore, 
Distinct  as  if  it  were  at  broad  noonday, 
And  I  were  drifting  down  from  Nashua. 

With  a  bending  sail  we  glided  rapidly  by  Tyngs- 
borough  and  Chelmsford,  each  holding  in  one  hand 
half  of  a  tart  country  apple  pie  which  we  had  pur 
chased  to  celebrate  our  return,  and  in  the  other  a 
fragment  of  the  newspaper  in  which  it  was  wrapped, 
devouring  these  with  divided  relish,  and  learning  the 
news  which  had  transpired  since  we  sailed.  The  river 
here  opened  into  a  broad  and  straight  reach  of  great 
length,  which  we  bounded  merrily  over  before  a  smack 
ing  breeze,  with  a  devil-may-care  look  in  our  faces, 
and  our  boat  a  white  bone  in  its  mouth,  and  a  speed 
which  greatly  astonished  some  scow  boatmen  whom 
we  met.  The  wind  in  the  horizon  rolled  like  a  flood 
over  valley  and  plain,  and  every  tree  bent  to  the  blast, 
and  the  mountains  like  school-boys  turned  their  cheeks 
to  it.  They  were  great  and  current  motions,  the  flow 
ing  sail,  the  running  stream,  the  waving  tree,  the  rov 
ing  wind.  The  north  wind  stepped  readily  into  the 
harness  which  we  had  provided,  and  pulled  us  along 
with  good  will.  Sometimes  we  sailed  as  gently  and 
steadily  as  the  clouds  overhead,  watching  the  receding 
shores  and  the  motions  of  our  sail;  the  play  of  its  pulse 
so  like  our  own  lives,  so  thin  and  yet  so  full  of  life,  so 
noiseless  when  it  labored  hardest,  so  noisy  and  impa 
tient  when  least  effective;  now  bending  to  some  gen 
erous  impulse  of  the  breeze,  and  then  fluttering  and 
flapping  with  a  kind  of  human  suspense.  It  was  the 


FRIDAY  385 

scale  on  which  the  varying  temperature  of  distant 
atmospheres  was  graduated,  and  it  was  some  attrac 
tion  for  us  that  the  breeze  it  played  with  had  been 
out  of  doors  so  long.  Thus  we  sailed,  not  being  able  to 
fly,  but  as  next  best,  making  a  long  furrow  in  the  fields 
of  the  Merrimack  toward  our  home,  with  our  wings 
spread,  but  never  lifting  our  heel  from  the  watery 
trench  ;  gracefully  plowing  homeward  with  our  brisk 
and  willing  team,  wind  and  stream,  pulling  together, 
the  former  yet  a  wild  steer,  yoked  to  his  more  sedate 
fellow.  It  was  very  near  flying,  as  when  the  duck 
rushes  through  the  water  with  an  impulse  of  her 
wings,  throwing  the  spray  about  her  before  she  can 
rise.  How  we  had  stuck  fast  if  drawn  up  but  a  few 
feet  on  the  shore! 

When  we  reached  the  great  bend  just  above  Middle 
sex,  where  the  river  runs  east  thirty-five  miles  to  the 
sea,  we  at  length  lost  the  aid  of  this  propitious  wind, 
though  we  contrived  to  make  one  long  and  judicious 
tack  carry  us  nearly  to  the  locks  of  the  canal.  We 
were  here  locked  through  at  noon  by  our  old  friend, 
the  lover  of  the  higher  mathematics,  who  seemed  glad 
to  see  us  safe  back  again  through  so  many  locks;  but 
we  did  not  stop  to  consider  any  of  his  problems,  though 
we  could  cheerfully  have  spent  a  whole  autumn  in  this 
way  another  time,  and  never  have  asked  what  his  reli 
gion  was.  It  is  so  rare  to  meet  with  a  man  outdoors 
who  cherishes  a  worthy  thought  in  his  mind,  which  is 
independent  of  the  labor  of  his  hands.  Behind  every 
man's  busy-ness  there  should  be  a  level  of  undisturbed 
serenity  and  industry,  as  within  the  reef  encircling  a 


386  A  WEEK 

coral  isle  there  is  always  an  expanse  of  still  water, 
where  the  depositions  are  going  on  which  will  finally 
raise  it  above  the  surface. 

The  eye  which  can  appreciate  the  naked  and  abso 
lute  beauty  of  a  scientific  truth  is  far  more  rare  than 
that  which  is  attracted  by  a  moral  one.  Few  detect 
the  morality  in  the  former,  or  the  science  in  the  latter. 
Aristotle  defined  art  to  be  Ao'yos  rov  Ipyov  ai/ev  v\rj<s,  The 
principle  of  the  work  without  the  wood  ;  but  most  men 
prefer  to  have  some  of  the  wood  along  with  the  prin 
ciple;  they  demand  that  the  truth  be  clothed  in  flesh 
and  blood  and  the  warm  colors  of  life.  They  prefer 
the  partial  statement  because  it  fits  and  measures  them 
and  their  commodities  best.  But  science  still  exists 
everywhere  as  the  sealer  of  weights  and  measures  at 
least. 

We  have  heard  much  about  the  poetry  of  mathemat 
ics,  but  very  little  of  it  has  yet  been  sung.  The  an 
cients  had  a  juster  notion  of  their  poetic  value  than  we. 
The  most  distinct  and  beautiful  statement  of  any  truth 
must  take  at  last  the  mathematical  form.  We  might  so 
simplify  the  rules  of  moral  philosophy,  as  well  as  of 
arithmetic,  that  one  formula  would  express  them  both. 
All  the  moral  laws  are  readily  translated  into  natural 
philosophy,  for  often  we  have  only  to  restore  the  primi 
tive  meaning  of  the  words  by  which  they  are  expressed, 
or  to  attend  to  their  literal  instead  of  their  metaphori 
cal  sense.  They  are  already  supernatural  philosophy. 
The  whole  body  of  what  is  now  called  moral  or  ethical 
truth  existed  in  the  golden  age  as  abstract  science.  Or, 


FRIDAY  387 

if  we  prefer,  we  may  say  that  the  laws  of  Nature  are 
the  purest  morality.  The  Tree  of  Knowledge  is  a  Tree 
of  Knowledge  of  good  and  evil.  He  is  not  a  true  man 
of  science  who  does  not  bring  some  sympathy  to  his 
studies,  and  expect  to  learn  something  by  behavior  as 
well  as  by  application.  It  is  childish  to  rest  in  the  dis 
covery  of  mere  coincidences,  or  of  partial  and  extra 
neous  laws.  The  study  of  geometry  is  a  petty  and  idle 
exercise  of  the  mind,  if  it  is  applied  to  no  larger  system 
than  the  starry  one.  Mathematics  should  be  mixed 
not  only  with  physics  but  with  ethics,  that  is  mixed 
mathematics.  The  fact  which  interests  us  most  is  the 
life  of  the  naturalist.  The  purest  science  is  still  bio 
graphical.  Nothing  will  dignify  and  elevate  science 
while  it  is  sundered  so  wholly  from  the  moral  life  of 
its  devotee,  and  he  professes  another  religion  than  it 
teaches,  and  worships  at  a  foreign  shrine.  Anciently 
the  faith  of  a  philosopher  was  identical  with  his  system, 
or,  in  other  words,  his  view  of  the  universe. 

My  friends  mistake  when  they  communicate  facts  to 
me  with  so  much  pains.  Their  presence,  even  their 
exaggerations  and  loose  statements,  are  equally  good 
facts  for  me.  I  have  no  respect  for  facts  even  except 
when  I  would  use  them,  and  for  the  most  part  I  am 
independent  of  those  which  I  hear,  and  can  afford  to 
be  inaccurate,  or,  in  other  words,  to  substitute  more 
present  and  pressing  facts  in  their  place. 

The  poet  uses  the  results  of  science  and  philosophy, 
and  generalizes  their  widest  deductions. 

The  process  of  discovery  is  very  simple.  An  un 
wearied  and  systematic  application  of  known  laws  to 


388  A  WEEK 

nature  causes  the  unknown  to  reveal  themselves.  Al 
most  any  mode  of  observation  will  be  successful  at  last, 
for  what  is  most  wanted  is  method.  Only  let  something 
be  determined  and  fixed  around  which  observation  may 
rally.  How  many  new  relations  a  foot-rule  alone  will 
reveal,  and  to  how  many  things  still  this  has  not  been 
applied!  What  wonderful  discoveries  have  been  and 
may  still  be  made  with  a  plumb-line,  a  level,  a  survey 
or's  compass,  a  thermometer,  or  a  barometer!  Where 
there  is  an  observatory  and  a  telescope,  we  expect  that 
any  eyes  will  see  new  worlds  at  once.  I  should  say 
that  the  most  prominent  scientific  men  of  our  country, 
and  perhaps  of  this  age,  are  either  serving  the  arts  and 
not  pure  science,  or  are  performing  faithful  but  quite 
subordinate  labors  in  particular  departments.  They 
make  no  steady  and  systematic  approaches  to  the  cen 
tral  fact.  A  discovery  is  made,  and  at  once  the  atten 
tion  of  all  observers  is  distracted  to  that,  and  it  draws 
many  analogous  discoveries  in  its  train;  as  if  their 
work  were  not  already  laid  out  for  them,  but  they  had 
been  lying  on  their  oars.  There  is  wanting  constant 
and  accurate  observation  with  enough  of  theory  to 
direct  and  discipline  it. 

But,  above  all,  there  is  wanting  genius.  Our  books 
of  science,  as  they  improve  in  accuracy,  are  in  danger 
of  losing  the  freshness  and  vigor  and  readiness  to  ap 
preciate  the  real  laws  of  Nature,  which  is  a  marked 
merit  in  the  ofttimes  false  theories  of  the  ancients.  I 
am  attracted  by  the  slight  pride  and  satisfaction,  the 
emphatic  and  even  exaggerated  style,  in  which  some  of 
the  older  naturalists  speak  of  the  operations  of  Na- 


FRIDAY  389 

ture,  though  they  are  better  qualified  to  appreciate 
than  to  discriminate  the  facts.  Their  assertions  are  not 
without  value  when  disproved.  If  they  are  not  facts, 
they  are  suggestions  for  nature  herself  to  act  upon. 
"  The  Greeks,"  says  Gesner,  "had  a  common  proverb 
(Aayos  /ca&vSov),  a  sleeping  hare,  for  a  dissembler  or 
counterfeit;  because  the  hare  sees  when  she  sleeps;  for 
this  is  an  admirable  and  rare  work  of  Nature,  that  all 
the  residue  of  her  bodily  parts  take  their  rest,  but  the 
eye  standeth  continually  sentinel/' 

Observation  is  so  wide  awake,  and  facts  are  being 
so  rapidly  added  to  the  sum  of  human  experience,  that 
it  appears  as  if  the  theorizer  would  always  be  in  ar 
rears,  and  were  doomed  forever  to  arrive  at  imperfect 
conclusions ;  but  the  power  to  perceive  a  law  is  equally 
rare  in  all  ages  of  the  world,  and  depends  but  little  on 
the  number  of  facts  observed.  The  senses  of  the  sav 
age  will  furnish  him  with  facts  enough  to  set  him  up  as 
a  philosopher.  The  ancients  can  still  speak  to  us  with 
authority,  even  on  the  themes  of  geology  and  chem 
istry,  though  these  studies  are  thought  to  have  had 
their  birth  in  modern  times.  Much  is  said  about  the 
progress  of  science  in  these  centuries.  I  should  say 
that  the  useful  results  of  science  had  accumulated,  but 
that  there  had  been  no  accumulation  of  knowledge, 
strictly  speaking,  for  posterity;  for  knowledge  is  to  be  ac 
quired  only  by  a  corresponding  experience.  How  can  we 
know  what  we  are  told  merely  ?  Each  man  can  interpret 
another's  experience  only  by  his  own.  We  read  that 
Newton  discovered  the  law  of  gravitation,  but  how 
many  who  have  heard  of  his  famous  discovery  have 


390  A  WEEK 

recognized  the  same  truth  that  he  did  ?  It  may  be  not 
one.  The  revelation  which  was  then  made  to  him  has 
not  been  superseded  by  the  revelation  made  to  any 
successor. 

We  see  the  planet  fall, 

And  that  is  all. 

In  a  review  of  Sir  James  Clark  Ross's  "  Antarctic 
Voyage  of  Discovery,"  there  is  a  passage  which  shows 
how  far  a  body  of  men  are  commonly  impressed  by  an 
object  of  sublimity,  and  which  is  also  a  good  instance 
of  the  step  from  the  sublime  to  the  ridiculous.  After 
describing  the  discovery  of  the  Antarctic  Continent,  at 
first  seen  a  hundred  miles  distant  over  fields  of  ice,  — 
stupendous  ranges  of  mountains  from  seven  and  eight 
to  twelve  and  fourteen  thousand  feet  high,  covered 
with  eternal  snow  and  ice,  in  solitary  and  inaccessible 
grandeur,  at  one  time  the  weather  being  beautifully 
clear,  and  the  sun  shining  on  the  icy  landscape;  a  con 
tinent  whose  islands  only  are  accessible,  and  these  ex 
hibited  "  not  the  smallest  trace  of  vegetation,"  only  in 
a  few  places  the  rocks  protruding  through  their  icy 
covering,  to  convince  the  beholder  that  land  formed 
the  nucleus,  and  that  it  was  not  an  iceberg,  —  the 
practical  British  reviewer  proceeds  thus,  sticking  to  his 
last:  "  On  the  22d  of  January,  afternoon,  the  Expedi 
tion  made  the  latitude  of  74°  20',  and  by  7h  p.  M.,  hav 
ing  ground  [ground !  where  did  they  get  ground  ?]  to 
believe  that  they  were  then  in  a  higher  southern  lati 
tude  than  had  been  attained  by  that  enterprising  sea 
man,  the  late  Captain  James  Weddel,  and  therefore 
higher  than  all  their  predecessors,  an  extra  allowance 


FRIDAY  391 

of  grog  was  issued  to  the  crews  as  a  reward  for  their 
perseverance." 

Let  not  us  sailors  of  late  centuries  take  upon  our 
selves  any  airs  on  account  of  our  Newtons  and  our 
Cuviers ;  we  deserve  an  extra  allowance  of  grog  only. 

We  endeavored  in  vain  to  persuade  the  wind  to  blow 
through  the  long  corridor  of  the  canal,  which  is  here 
cut  straight  through  the  woods,  and  were  obliged  to 
resort  to  our  old  expedient  of  drawing  by  a  cord. 
When  we  reached  the  Concord,  we  were  forced  to  row 
once  more  in  good  earnest,  with  neither  wind  nor  cur 
rent  in  our  favor,  but  by  this  time  the  rawness  of  the 
day  had  disappeared,  and  we  experienced  the  warmth 
of  a  summer  afternoon.  This  change  in  the  weather 
was  favorable  to  our  contemplative  mood,  and  disposed 
us  to  dream  yet  deeper  at  our  oars,  while  we  floated 
in  imagination  farther  down  the  stream  of  time,  as  we 
had  floated  down  the  stream  of  the  Merrimack,  to 
poets  of  a  milder  period  than  had  engaged  us  in  the 
morning.  Chelmsford  and  Billerica  appeared  like  old 
English  towns,  compared  with  Merrimack  and  Nashua, 
and  many  generations  of  civil  poets  might  have  lived 
and  sung  here. 

What  a  contrast  between  the  stern  and  desolate 
poetry  of  Ossian,  and  that  of  Chaucer,  and  even  of 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  much  more  of  Dryden,  and 
Pope,  and  Gray!  Our  summer  of  English  poetry,  like 
the  Greek  and  Latin  before  it,  seems  well  advanced 
towards  its  fall,  and  laden  with  the  fruit  and  foliage 


392  A  WEEK 

of  the  season,  with  bright  autumnal  tints,  but  soon  the 
winter  will  scatter  its  myriad  clustering  and  shading 
leaves,  and  leave  only  a  few  desolate  and  fibrous 
boughs  to  sustain  the  snow  and  rime,  and  creak  in  the 
blasts  of  age.  We  cannot  escape  the  impression  that 
the  Muse  has  stooped  a  little  in  her  flight,  when  we 
come  to  the  literature  of  civilized  eras.  Now  first  we 
hear  of  various  ages  and  styles  of  poetry;  it  is  pastoral, 
and  lyric,  and  narrative,  and  didactic;  but  the  poetry 
of  runic  monuments  is  of  one  style,  and  for  every  age. 
The  bard  has  in  a  great  measure  lost  the  dignity  and 
sacredness  of  his  office.  Formerly  he  was  called  a  seer, 
but  now  it  is  thought  that  one  man  sees  as  much  as 
another.  He  has  no  longer  the  bardic  rage,  and  only 
conceives  the  deed,  which  he  formerly  stood  ready  to 
perform.  Hosts  of  warriors  earnest  for  battle  could  not 
mistake  nor  dispense  with  the  ancient  bard.  His  lays 
were  heard  in  the  pauses  of  the  fight.  There  was  no 
danger  of  his  being  overlooked  by  his  contemporaries. 
But  now  the  hero  and  the  bard  are  of  different  profes 
sions.  When  we  come  to  the  pleasant  English  verse, 
the  storms  have  all  cleared  away,  and  it  will  never 
thunder  and  lighten  more.  The  poet  has  come  within 
doors,  and  exchanged  the  forest  and  crag  for  the  fire 
side,  the  hut  of  the  Gael,  and  Stonehenge,  with  its 
circles  of  stones,  for  the  house  of  the  Englishman.  No 
hero  stands  at  the  door  prepared  to  break  forth  into 
song  or  heroic  action,  but  a  homely  Englishman,  who 
cultivates  the  art  of  poetry.  We  see  the  comfortable 
fireside,  and  hear  the  crackling  fagots,  in  all  the  verse. 
Notwithstanding  the  broad  humanity  of  Chaucer, 


FRIDAY  393 

and  the  many  social  and  domestic  comforts  which  we 
meet  with  in  his  verse,  we  have  to  narrow  our  vision 
somewhat  to  consider  him,  as  if  he  occupied  less  space 
in  the  landscape,  and  did  not  stretch  over  hill  and  val 
ley  as  Ossian  does.  Yet,  seen  from  the  side  of  poster 
ity,  as  the  father  of  English  poetry,  preceded  by  a  long 
silence  or  confusion  in  history,  unenlivened  by  any 
strain  of  pure  melody,  we  easily  come  to  reverence 
him.  Passing  over  the  earlier  Continental  poets,  since 
we  are  bound  to  the  pleasant  archipelago  of  English 
poetry,  Chaucer's  is  the  first  name  after  that  misty 
weather  in  which  Ossian  lived,  which  can  detain  us 
long.  Indeed,  though  he  represents  so  different  a  cul 
ture  and  society,  he  may  be  regarded  as  in  many  re 
spects  the  Homer  of  the  English  poets.  Perhaps  he  is 
the  youthfulest  of  them  all.  We  return  to  him  as  to 
the  purest  well,  the  fountain  farthest  removed  from 
the  highway  of  desultory  life.  He  is  so  natural  and 
cheerful,  compared  with  later  poets,  that  we  might  al 
most  regard  him  as  a  personification  of  spring.  To  the 
faithful  reader  his  muse  has  even  given  an  aspect  to 
his  times,  and  when  he  is  fresh  from  perusing  him, 
they  seem  related  to  the  golden  age.  It  is  still  the 
poetry  of  youth  and  life,  rather  than  of  thought;  and 
though  the  moral  vein  is  obvious  and  constant,  it  has 
not  yet  banished  the  sun  and  daylight  from  his  verse. 
The  loftiest  strains  of  the  Muse  are,  for  the  most  part, 
sublimely  plaintive,  and  not  a  carol  as  free  as  Nature's. 
The  content  which  the  sun  shines  to  celebrate  from 
morning  to  evening  is  unsung.  The  Muse  solaces  her 
self,  and  is  not  ravished  but  consoled.  There  is  a  ca- 


394  A  WEEK 

tastrophe  implied,  and  a  tragic  element  in  all  our  verse, 
and  less  of  the  lark  and  morning  dews,  than  of  the 
nightingale  and  evening  shades.  But  in  Homer  and 
Chaucer  there  is  more  of  the  innocence  and  serenity  of 
youth  than  in  the  more  modern  and  moral  poets.  The 
Iliad  is  not  Sabbath  but  morning  reading,  and  men 
cling  to  this  old  song,  because  they  still  have  moments 
of  unbaptized  and  uncommitted  life,  which  give  them 
an  appetite  for  more.  To  the  innocent  there  are 
neither  cherubim  nor  angels.  At  rare  intervals  we  rise 
above  the  necessity  of  virtue  into  an  unchangeable 
morning  light,  in  which  we  have  only  to  live  right  on 
and  breathe  the  ambrosial  air.  The  Iliad  represents 
no  creed  nor  opinion,  and  we  read  it  with  a  rare  sense 
of  freedom  and  irresponsibility,  as  if  we  trod  on  native 
ground,  and  were  autochthones  of  the  soil. 

Chaucer  had  eminently  the  habits  of  a  literary  man 
and  a  scholar.  There  were  never  any  times  so  stirring 
that  there  were  not  to  be  found  some  sedentary  still. 
He  was  surrounded  by  the  din  of  arms.  The  battles  of 
Hallidon  Hill  and  Neville's  Cross,  and  the  still  more 
memorable  battles  of  Cressy  and  Poictiers,  were  fought 
in  his  youth;  but  these  did  not  concern  our  poet  much, 
Wickliffe  and  his  reform  much  more.  He  regarded 
himself  always  as  one  privileged  to  sit  and  converse 
with  books.  He  helped  to  establish  the  literary  class. 
His  character  as  one  of  the  fathers  of  the  English  lan 
guage  would  alone  make  his  works  important,  even 
those  which  have  little  poetical  merit.  He  was  as  simple 
as  Wordsworth  in  preferring  his  homely  but  vigorous 
Saxon  tongue,  when  it  was  neglected  by  the  court,  and 


FRIDAY  395 

had  not  yet  attained  to  the  dignity  of  a  literature,  and 
rendered  a  similar  service  to  his  country  to  that  which 
Dante  rendered  to  Italy.  If  Greek  sufficeth  for  Greek, 
and  Arabic  for  Arabian,  and  Hebrew  for  Jew,  and 
Latin  for  Latin,  then  English  shall  suffice  for  him,  for 
any  of  these  will  serve  to  teach  truth  "  right  as  divers 
pathes  leaden  divers  folke  the  right  waye  to  Rome."  In 
the  Testament  of  Love  he  writes,  "  Let  then  clerkes 
enditen  in  Latin,  for  they  have  the  propertie  of  science, 
and  the  knowinge  in  that  facultie,  and  lette  Frenchmen 
in  their  Frenche  also  enditen  their  queinte  termes,  for  it 
is  kyndely  to  their  mouthes,  and  let  us  she  we  our  fan 
tasies  in  soche  wordes  as  we  lemeden  of  our  dames 
tonge." 

He  will  know  how  to  appreciate  Chaucer  best  who 
has  come  down  to  him  the  natural  way,  through  the 
meagre  pastures  of  Saxon  and  ante-Chaucerian  poetry; 
and  yet,  so  human  and  wise  he  appears  after  such  diet, 
that  we  are  liable  to  misjudge  him  still.  In  the  Saxon 
poetry  extant,  in  the  earliest  English,  and  the  contem 
porary  Scottish  poetry,  there  is  less  to  remind  the 
reader  of  the  rudeness  and  vigor  of  youth  than  of  the 
feebleness  of  a  declining  age.  It  is  for  the  most  part 
translation  of  imitation  merely,  with  only  an  occasional 
and  slight  tinge  of  poetry,  oftentimes  the  falsehood  and 
exaggeration  of  fable,  without  its  imagination  to  redeem 
it,  and  we  look  in  vain  to  find  antiquity  restored,  hu 
manized,  and  made  blithe  again  by  some  natural  sym 
pathy  between  it  and  the  present.  But  Chaucer  is  fresh 
and  modern  still,  and  no  dust  settles  on  his  true  pas 
sages.  It  lightens  along  the  line,  and  we  are  reminded 


396  A  WEEK 

that  flowers  have  bloomed,  and  birds  sung,  and  hearts 
beaten  in  England.  Before  the  earnest  gaze  of  the 
reader,  the  rust  and  moss  of  time  gradually  drop  off, 
and  the  original  green  life  is  revealed.  He  was  a 
homely  and  domestic  man,  and  did  breathe  quite  as 
modern  men  do. 

There  is  no  wisdom  that  can  take  place  of  humanity, 
and  we  find  that  in  Chaucer.  We  can  expand  at  last  in 
his  breadth,  and  we  think  that  we  could  have  been  that 
man's  acquaintance.  He  was  worthy  to  be  a  citizen  of 
England,  while  Petrarch  and  Boccaccio  lived  in  Italy, 
and  Tell  and  Tamerlane  in  Switzerland  and  in  Asia, 
and  Bruce  in  Scotland,  and  Wickliffe  and  Gower  and 
Edward  the  Third  and  John  of  Gaunt  and  the  Black 
Prince  were  his  own  countrymen  as  well  as  contem 
poraries;  all  stout  and  stirring  names.  The  fame  of 
Roger  Bacon  came  down  from  the  preceding  century, 
and  the  name  of  Dante  still  possessed  the  influence  of 
a  living  presence.  On  the  whole,  Chaucer  impresses 
us  as  greater  than  his  reputation,  and  not  a  little  like 
Homer  and  Shakespeare,  for  he  would  have  held  up  his 
head  in  their  company.  Among  early  English  poets  he 
is  the  landlord  and  host,  and  has  the  authority  of  such. 
The  affectionate  mention  which  succeeding  early  poets 
make  of  him,  coupling  him  with  Homer  and  Virgil,  is 
to  be  taken  into  the  account  in  estimating  his  character 
and  influence.  King  James  and  Dunbar  of  Scotland 
speak  of  him  with  more  love  and  reverence  than  any 
modern  author  of  his  predecessors  of  the  last  century. 
The  same  childlike  relation  is  without  a  parallel  now. 
For  the  most  part  we  read  him  without  criticism,  for  he 


FRIDAY  397 

does  not  plead  his  own  cause,  but  speaks  for  his  readers, 
and  has  that  greatness  of  trust  and  reliance  which  com 
pels  popularity.  He  confides  in  the  reader,  and  speaks 
privily  with  him,  keeping  nothing  back.  And  in  return 
the  reader  has  great  confidence  in  him,  that  he  tells  no 
lies,  and  reads  his  story  with  indulgence,  as  if  it  were 
the  circumlocution  of  a  child,  but  often  discovers  after 
wards  that  he  has  spoken  with  more  directness  and 
economy  of  words  than  a  sage.  He  is  never  heartless, 

"For  first  the  thing  is  thought  within  the  hart, 
Er  any  word  out  from  the  mouth  astart." 

And  so  new  was  all  his  theme  in  those  days,  that  he  did 
not  have  to  invent,  but  only  to  tell. 

We  admire  Chaucer  for  his  sturdy  English  wit.  The 
easy  height  he  speaks  from  in  his  Prologue  to  the 
Canterbury  Tales,  as  if  he  were'  equal  to  any  of  the 
company  there  assembled,  is  as  good  as  any  particular 
excellence  in  it.  But  though  it  is  full  of  good  sense  and 
humanity,  it  is  not  transcendent  poetry.  For  pictur 
esque  description  of  persons  it  is,  perhaps,  without  a 
parallel  in  English  poetry;  yet  it  is  essentially  humor 
ous,  as  the  loftiest  genius  never  is.  Humor,  however 
broad  and  genial,  takes  a  narrower  view  than  enthu 
siasm.  To  his  own  finer  vein  he  added  all  the  common 
wit  and  wisdom  of  his  time,  and  everywhere  in  his 
works  his  remarkable  knowledge  of  the  world  and  nice 
perception  of  character,  his  rare  common  sense  and 
proverbial  wisdom,  are  apparent.  His  genius  does  not 
soar  like  Milton's,  but  is  genial  and  familiar.  It  shows 
great  tenderness  and  delicacy,  but  not  the  heroic  senti 
ment.  It  is  only  a  greater  portion  of  humanity  with  all 


398  A  WEEK 

its  weakness.  He  is  not  heroic,  as  Raleigh,  nor  pious, 
as  Herbert,  nor  philosophical,  as  Shakespeare,  but  he 
is  the  child  of  the  English  muse,  that  child  which  is 
the  father  of  the  man.  The  charm  of  his  poetry  con 
sists  often  only  in  an  exceeding  naturalness,  perfect  sin 
cerity,  with  the  behavior  of  a  child  rather  than  of  a  man. 

Gentleness  and  delicacy  of  character  are  everywhere 
apparent  in  his  verse.  The  simplest  and  humblest  words 
come  readily  to  his  lips.  No  one  can  read  the  Prioress's 
tale,  understanding  the  spirit  in  which  it  was  written, 
and  in  which  the  child  sings  0  alma  redemptoris  mater,  or 
the  account  of  the  departure  of  Constance  with  her 
child  upon  the  sea,  in  the  Man  of  Lawe's  tale,  without 
feeling  the  native  innocence  and  refinement  of  the  author. 
Nor  can  we  be  mistaken  respecting  the  essential  purity 
of  his  character,  disregarding  the  apology  of  the  man 
ners  of  the  age.  A  simple  pathos  and  feminine  gentle 
ness,  which  Wordsworth  only  occasionally  approaches, 
but  does  not  equal,  are  peculiar  to  him.  WTe  are  tempted 
to  say  that  his  genius  was  feminine,  not  masculine.  It 
was  such  a  feminineness,  however,  as  is  rarest  to  find 
in  woman,  though  not  the  appreciation  of  it  ;  perhaps 
it  is  not  to  be  found  at  all  in  woman,  but  is  only  the 
feminine  in  man. 

Such  pure  and  genuine  and  childlike  love  of  Nature 
is  hardly  to  be  found  in  any  poet. 

Chaucer's  remarkably  trustful  and  affectionate  char 
acter  appears  in  his  familiar,  yet  innocent  and  reverent, 
manner  of  speaking  of  his  God.  He  comes  into  his 
thought  without  any  false  reverence,  and  with  no  more 
parade  than  the  zephyr  to  his  ear.  If  Nature  is  our 


FRIDAY  399 

mother,  then  God  is  our  father.  There  is  less  love  and 
simple,  practical  trust  in  Shakespeare  and  Milton. 
How  rarely  in  our  English  tongue  do  we  find  expressed 
any  affection  for  God !  Certainly,  there  is  no  sentiment 
so  rare  as  the  love  of  God.  Herbert  almost  alone  ex 
presses  it,  "  Ah,  my  dear  God  !  "  Our  poet  uses  similar 
words  with  propriety  ;  and  whenever  he  sees  a  beauti 
ful  person,  or  other  object,  prides  himself  on  the  "  mais- 
try"  of  his  God.  He  even  recommends  Dido  to  be 
his  bride,  — 

"If  that  God  that  heaven  and  yearth  made, 
Would  have  a  love  for  beauty  and  goodnesse, 
And  womanhede,  trouth,  and  semeliness." 

But  in  justification  of  our  praise,  we  must  refer  to 
his  works  themselves  ;  to  the  prologue  to  the  Canter 
bury  Tales,  the  account  of  Gentilesse,  the  Flower  and 
the  Leaf,  the  stories  of  Griselda,  Virginia,  Ariadne,  and 
Blanche  the  Duchesse,  and  much  more  of  less  distin 
guished  merit.  There  are  many  poets  of  more  taste, 
and  better  manners,  who  knew  how  to  leave  out  their 
dullness  ;  but  such  negative  genius  cannot  detain  us 
long  ;  we  shall  return  to  Chaucer  still  with  love.  Some 
natures  which  are  really  rude  and  ill-developed,  have 
yet  a  higher  standard  of  perfection  than  others  which 
are  refined  and  well  balanced.  Even  the  clown  has  taste, 
whose  dictates,  though  he  disregards  them,  are  higher 
and  purer  than  those  which  the  artist  obeys.  If  we 
have  to  wander  through  many  dull  and  prosaic  passages 
in  Chaucer,  we  have  at  least  the  satisfaction  of  know 
ing  that  it  is  not  an  artificial  dullness,  but  too  easily 
matched  by  many  passages  in  life.  We  confess  that  we 


400  A  WEEK 

feel  a  disposition  commonly  to  concentrate  sweets,  and 
accumulate  pleasures  ;  but  the  poet  may  be  presumed 
always  to  speak  as  a  traveler,  who  leads  us  through  a 
varied  scenery,  from  one  eminence  to  another,  and  it 
is,  perhaps,  more  pleasing,  after  all,  to  meet  with  a  fine 
thought  in  its  natural  setting.  Surely  fate  has  enshrined 
it  in  these  circumstances  for  some  end.  Nature  strews 
her  nuts  and  flowers  broadcast,  and  never  collects  them 
into  heaps.  This  was  the  soil  it  grew  in,  and  this  the 
hour  it  bloomed  in  ;  if  sun,  wind,  and  rain  came  here 
to  cherish  and  expand  the  flower,  shall  not  we  come 
here  to  pluck  it  ? 

A  true  poem  is  distinguished  not  so  much  by  a  feli 
citous  expression,  or  any  thought  it  suggests,  as  by  the 
atmosphere  which  surrounds  it.  Most  have  beauty  of 
outline  merely,  and  are  striking  as  the  form  and  bear 
ing  of  a  stranger  ;  but  true  verses  come  toward  us  indis 
tinctly,  as  the  very  breath  of  all  friendliness,  and  envelop 
us  in  their  spirit  and  fragrance.  Much  of  our  poetry 
has  the  very  best  manners,  but  no  character.  It  is  only 
an  unusual  precision  and  elasticity  of  speech,  as  if  its 
author  had  taken,  not  an  intoxicating  draught,  but  an 
electuary.  It  has  the  distinct  outline  of  sculpture,  and 
chronicles  an  early  hour.  Under  the  influence  of  pas 
sion  all  men  speak  thus  distinctly,  but  wrath  is  not 
always  divine. 

There  are  two  classes  of  men  called  poets.  The  one 
cultivates  life,  the  other  art,  —  one  seeks  food  for  nutri 
ment,  the  other  for  flavor  ;  one  satisfies  hunger,  the 
other  gratifies  the  palate.  There  are  two  kinds  of  writ- 


FRIDAY  401 

ing,  both  great  and  rare,  —  one  that  of  genius,  or  the 
inspired ,  the  other  of  intellect  and  taste ,  in  the  intervals 
of  inspiration.  The  former  is  above  criticism,  always 
correct,  giving  the  law  to  criticism.  It  vibrates  and 
pulsates  with  life  forever.  It  is  sacred,  and  to  be  read 
with  reverence,  as  the  works  of  nature  are  studied. 
There  are  few  instances  of  a  sustained  style  of  this 
kind  ;  perhaps  every  man  has  spoken  words,  but  the 
speaker  is  then  careless  of  the  record.  Such  a  style 
removes  us  out  of  personal  relations  with  its  author ; 
we  do  not  take  his  words  on  our  lips,  but  his  sense  into 
our  hearts.  It  is  the  stream  of  inspiration,  which  bub 
bles  out,  now  here,  now  there,  now  in  this  man,  now  in 
that.  It  matters  not  through  what  ice-crystals  it  is  seen, 
now  a  fountain,  now  the  ocean  stream  running  under 
ground.  It  is  in  Shakespeare,  Alpheus,  in  Burns,  Are- 
thuse  ;  but  ever  the  same.  The  other  is  self-possessed 
and  wise.  It  is  reverent  of  genius,  and  greedy  of  inspi 
ration.  It  is  conscious  in  the  highest  and  the  least  de 
gree.  It  consists  with  the  most  perfect  command  of  the 
faculties.  It  dwells  in  a  repose  as  of  the  desert,  and 
objects  are  as  distinct  in  it  as  oases  or  palms  in  the 
horizon  of  sand.  The  train  of  thought  moves  with  sub 
dued  and  measured  step,  like  a  caravan.  But  the  pen 
is  only  an  instrument  in  its  hand,  and  not  instinct  with 
life,  like  a  longer  arm.  It  leaves  a  thin  varnish  or  glaze 
over  all  its  work.  The  works  of  Goethe  furnish  re 
markable  instances  of  the  latter. 

There  is  no  just  and  serene  criticism  as  yet.  No 
thing  is  considered  simply  as  it  lies  in  the  lap  of  eternal 
beauty,  but  our  thoughts,  as  well  as  our  bodies,  must 


402  A  WEEK 

be  dressed  after  the  latest  fashions.  Our  taste  is  too 
delicate  and  particular.  It  says  nay  to  the  poet's  work, 
but  never  yea  to  his  hope.  It  invites  him  to  adorn  his 
deformities,  and  not  to  cast  them  off  by  expansion,  as 
the  tree  its  bark.  We  are  a  people  who  live  in  a  bright 
light,  in  houses  of  pearl  and  porcelain,  and  drink  only 
light  wines,  whose  teeth  are  easily  set  on  edge  by  the 
least  natural  sour.  If  we  had  been  consulted,  the  back 
bone  of  the  earth  would  have  been  made,  not  of  gran 
ite,  but  of  Bristol  spar.  A  modern  author  would  have 
died  in  infancy  in  a  ruder  age.  But  the  poet  is  some 
thing  more  than  a  scald,  "  a  smoother  and  polisher  of 
language;  "  he  is  a  Cincinnatus  in  literature,  and  oc 
cupies  no  west  end  of  the  world.  Like  the  sun,  he  will 
indifferently  select  his  rhymes,  and  with  a  liberal  taste 
weave  into  his  verse  the  planet  and  the  stubble. 

In  these  old  books  the  stucco  has  long  since  crum 
bled  away,  and  we  read  what  was  sculptured  in  the 
granite.  They  are  rude  and  massive  in  their  proportions, 
rather  than  smooth  and  delicate  in  their  finish.  The 
workers  in  stone  polish  only  their  chimney  ornaments, 
but  their  pyramids  are  roughly  done.  There  is  a  so 
berness  in  a  rough  aspect,  as  of  unhewn  granite,  which 
addresses  a  depth  in  us,  but  a  polished  surface  hits  only 
the  ball  of  the  eye.  The  true  finish  is  the  work  of  time, 
and  the  use  to  which  a  thing  is  put.  The  elements  are 
still  polishing  the  pyramids.  Art  may  varnish  and  gild, 
but  it  can  do  no  more.  A  work  of  genius  is  rough-hewn 
from  the  first,  because  it  anticipates  the  lapse  of  time, 
and  has  an  ingrained  polish,  which  still  appears  when 
fragments  are  broken  off,  an  essential  quality  of  its 


FRIDAY  403 

substance.  Its  beauty  is  at  the  same  time  its  strength, 
and  it  breaks  with  a  lustre. 

The  great  poem  must  have  the  stamp  of  greatness  as 
well  as  its  essence.  The  reader  easily  goes  within  the 
shallowest  contemporary  poetry,  and  informs  it  with 
all  the  life  and  promise  of  the  day,  as  the  pilgrim  goes 
within  the  temple,  and  hears  the  faintest  strains  of  the 
worshipers;  but  it  will  have  to  speak  to  posterity,  tra 
versing  these  deserts,  through  the  ruins  of  its  outmost 
walls,  by  the  grandeur  and  beauty  of  its  proportions. 

But  here  on  the  stream  of  the  Concord,  where  we 
have  all  the  while  been  bodily,  Nature,  who  is  superior 
to  all  styles  and  ages,  is  now,  with  pensive  face,  com 
posing  her  poem  Autumn,  with  which  no  work  of  man 
will  bear  to  be  compared. 

In  summer  we  live  out  of  doors,  and  have  only  im 
pulses  and  feelings,  which  are  all  for  action,  and  must 
wait  commonly  for  the  stillness  and  longer  nights  of 
autumn  and  winter  before  any  thought  will  subside; 
we  are  sensible  that  behind  the  rustling  leaves,  and  the 
stacks  of  grain,  and  the  bare  clusters  of  the  grape,  there 
is  the  field  of  a  wholly  new  life,  which  no  man  has 
lived ;  that  even  this  earth  was  made  for  more  mysteri 
ous  and  nobler  inhabitants  than  men  and  women.  In 
the  hues  of  October  sunsets,  we  see  the  portals  to  other 
mansions  than  those  which  we  occupy,  not  far  off  geo 
graphically,  — 

"There  is  a  place  beyond  that  flaming  hill, 

From  whence  the  stars  their  thin  appearance  shed, 
A  place  beyond  all  place,  where  never  ill, 
Nor  impure  thought  was  ever  harbored." 


404  A  WEEK 

Sometimes  a  mortal  feels  in  himself  Nature,  —  not  his 
Father  but  his  Mother  stirs  within  him,  and  he  becomes 
immortal  with  her  immortality.  From  time  to  time  she 
claims  kindredship  with  us,  and  some  globule  from  her 
veins  steals  up  into  our  own. 

I  am  the  autumnal  sun, 
With  autumn  gales  my  race  is  run; 
When  will  the  hazel  put  forth  its  flowers, 
Or  the  grape  ripen  under  my  bowers  ? 
When  will  the  harvest  or  the  hunter's  moon 
Turn  my  midnight  into  mid-noon  ? 

I  am  all  sere  and  yellow, 

And  to  my  core  mellow. 
The  mast  is  dropping  within  my  woods, 
The  winter  is  lurking  within  my  moods, 
And  the  rustling  of  the  withered  leaf 
Is  the  constant  music  of  my  grief. 

To  an  unskillful  rhymer  the  Muse  thus  spoke  in 
prose : — 

The  moon  no  longer  reflects  the  day,  but  rises  to 
her  absolute  rule,  and  the  husbandman  and  hunter  ac 
knowledge  her  for  their  mistress.  Asters  and  golden- 
rods  reign  along  the  way,  and  the  life-everlasting 
withers  not.  The  fields  are  reaped  and  shorn  of  their 
pride,  but  an  inward  verdure  still  crowns  them.  The 
thistle  scatters  its  down  on  the  pool,  and  yellow  leaves 
clothe  the  vine,  and  naught  disturbs  the  serious  life  of 
men.  But  behind  the  sheaves,  and  under  the  sod,  there 
lurks  a  ripe  fruit,  which  the  reapers  have  not  gathered, 
the  true  harvest  of  the  year,  which  it  bears  forever,  an 
nually  watering  and  maturing  it,  and  man  never  severs 
the  stalk  which  bears  this  palatable  fruit. 


FRIDAY  405 

Men  nowhere,  east  or  west,  live  yet  a  natural  life, 
round  which  the  vine  clings,  and  which  the  elm  will 
ingly  shadows.  Man  would  desecrate  it  by  his  touch, 
and  so  the  beauty  of  the  world  remains  veiled  to  him. 
He  needs  not  only  to  be  spiritualized,  but  naturalized, 
on  the  soil  of  earth.  Who  shall  conceive  what  kind  of 
roof  the  heavens  might  extend  over  him,  what  seasons 
minister  to  him,  and  what  employment  dignify  his  life ! 
Only  the  convalescent  raise  the  veil  of  nature.  An  im 
mortality  in  his  life  would  confer  immortality  on  his 
abode.  The  winds  should  be  his  breath,  the  seasons 
his  moods,  and  he  should  impart  of  his  serenity  to 
Nature  herself.  But  such  as  we  know  him  he  is  ephe 
meral  like  the  scenery  which  surrounds  him,  and  does 
not  aspire  to  an  enduring  existence.  When  we  come 
down  into  the  distant  village,  visible  from  the  moun 
tain-top,  the  nobler  inhabitants  with  whom  we  peopled 
it  have  departed,  and  left  only  vermin  in  its  desolate 
streets.  It  is  the  imagination  of  poets  which  puts  those 
brave  speeches  into  the  mouths  of  their  heroes.  They 
may  feign  that  Cato's  last  words  were 

"The  earth,  the  air  and  seas  I  know,  and  all 
The  joys  and  horrors  of  their  peace  and  wars; 
And  now  will  view  the  Gods'  state  and  the  stars," 

but  such  are  not  the  thoughts  nor  the  destiny  of  common 
men.  What  is  this  heaven  which  they  expect,  if  it  is 
no  better  than  they  expect  ?  Are  they  prepared  for  a 
better  than  they  can  now  imagine  ?  Where  is  the  heaven 
of  him  who  dies  on  a  stage,  in  a  theatre?  Here  or 
nowhere  is  our  heaven. 


406  A  WEEK 

"Although  we  see  celestial  bodies  move 
Above  the  earth,  the  earth  we  till  and  love." 

We  can  conceive  of  nothing  more  fair  than  something 
which  we  have  experienced.  "The  remembrance  of 
youth  is  a  sigh."  We  linger  in  manhood  to  tell  the 
dreams  of  our  childhood,  and  they  are  half  forgotten 
ere  we  have  learned  the  language.  We  have  need  to 
be  earth-born  as  well  as  heaven-born,  yT/ycvtis,  as  was 
said  of  the  Titans  of  old,  or  in  a  better  sense  than  they. 
There  have  been  heroes  for  whom  this  world  seemed 
expressly  prepared,  as  if  creation  had  at  last  succeeded; 
whose  daily  life  was  the  stuff  of  which  our  dreams  are 
made,  and  whose  presence  enhanced  the  beauty  and 
ampleness  of  Nature  herself.  Where  they  walked,  — 

"Largior  hie  campos  aether  et  lumine  vestit 
JPurpureo:  Solemque  suum,  sua  sidera  norunt." 

"  Here  a  more  copious  air  invests  the  fields,  and  clothes 
with  purple  light;  and  they  know  their  own  sun  and 
their  own  stars."  We  love  to  hear  some  men  speak, 
though  we  hear  not  what  they  say;  the  very  air  they 
breathe  is  rich  and  perfumed,  and  the  sound  of  their 
voices  falls  on  the  ear  like  the  rustling  of  leaves  or  the 
crackling  of  the  fire.  They  stand  many  deep.  They 
have  the  heavens  for  their  abettors,  as  those  who  have 
never  stood  from  under  them,  and  they  look  at  the 
stars  with  an  answering  ray.  Their  eyes  are  like  glow 
worms,  and  their  motions  graceful  and  flowing,  as  if  a 
place  were  already  found  for  them,  like  rivers  flowing 
through  valleys.  The  distinctions  of  morality,  of  right 
and  wrong,  sense  and  nonsense,  are  petty,  and  have 


FRIDAY  407 

lost  their  significance,  beside  these  pure  primeval  na 
tures.  When  I  consider  the  clouds  stretched  in  stu 
pendous  masses  across  the  sky,  frowning  with  darkness 
or  glowing  with  downy  light,  or  gilded  with  the  rays  of 
the  setting  sun,  like  the  battlements  of  a  city  in  the 
heavens,  their  grandeur  appears  thrown  away  on  the 
meanness  of  my  employment ;  the  drapery  is  altogether 
too  rich  for  such  poor  acting.  I  am  hardly  worthy  to 
be  a  suburban  dweller  outside  those  walls. 

"Unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man!" 

With  our  music  we  would  fain  challenge  transiently 
another  and  finer  sort  of  intercourse  than  our  daily 
toil  permits.  The  strains  come  back  to  us  amended  in 
the  echo,  as  when  a  friend  reads  our  verse.  Why  have 
they  so  painted  the  fruits,  and  freighted  them  with  such 
fragrance  as  to  satisfy  a  more  than  animal  appetite  ? 

"I  asked  the  schoolman,  his  advice  was  free, 
But  scored  me  out  too  intricate  a  way." 

These  things  imply,  perchance,  that  we  live  on  the 
verge  of  another  and  purer  realm,  from  which  these 
odors  and  sounds  are  wafted  over  to  us.  The  borders  of 
our  plot  are  set  with  flowers,  whose  seeds  were  blown 
from  more  Elysian  fields  adjacent.  They  are  the  pot 
herbs  of  the  gods.  Some  fairer  fruits  and  sweeter 
fragrances  wafted  over  to  us  betray  another  realm's 
vicinity.  There,  too,  does  Echo  dwell,  and  there  is  the 
abutment  of  the  rainbow's  arch. 

A  finer  race  and  finer  fed 
Feast  and  revel  o'er  our  head, 


408  A  WEEK 

And  we  titmen  are  only  able 
To  catch  the  fragments  from  their  table. 
Theirs  is  the  fragrance  of  the  fruits, 
While  we  consume  the  pulp  and  roots. 
What  are  the  moments  that  we  stand 
Astonished  on  the  Olympian  land! 

We  need  pray  for  no  higher  heaven  than  the  pure 
senses  can  furnish,  a  purely  sensuous  life.  Our  present 
senses  are  but  the  rudiments  of  what  they  are  destined 
to  become.  We  are  comparatively  deaf  and  dumb  and 
blind,  and  without  smell  or  taste  or  feeling.  Every 
generation  makes  the  discovery  that  its  divine  vigor  has 
been  dissipated,  and  each  sense  and  faculty  misapplied 
and  debauched.  The  ears  were  made,  not  for  such 
trivial  uses  as  men  are  wont  to  suppose,  but  to  hear 
celestial  sounds.  The  eyes  were  not  made  for  such 
groveling  uses  as  they  are  now  put  to  and  worn  out  by, 
but  to  behold  beauty  now  invisible.  May  we  not  see 
God  ?  Are  we  to  be  put  off  and  amused  in  this  life,  as 
it  were  with  a  mere  allegory  ?  Is  not  Nature,  rightly 
read,  that  of  which  she  is  commonly  taken  to  be  the 
symbol  merely?  When  the  common  man  looks  into 
the  sky,  which  he  has  not  so  much  profaned,  he  thinks 
it  less  gross  than  the  earth,  and  with  reverence  speaks 
of  "  the  Heavens,"  but  the  seer  will  in  the  same  sense 
speak  of  "  the  Earths,"  and  his  Father  who  is  in  them. 
"  Did  not  he  that  made  that  which  is  within  make  that 
which  is  without  also  ?  "  What  is  it,  then,  to  educate 
but  to  develop  these  divine  germs  called  the  senses  ? 
for  individuals  and  states  to  deal  magnanimously  with 
the  rising  generation,  leading  it  not  into  temptation, 


FRIDAY  409 

—  not  teach  the  eye  to  squint,  nor  attune  the  ear  to 
profanity.  But  where  is  the  instructed  teacher  ?  Where 
are  the  normal  schools  ? 

A  Hindoo  sage  said,  "  As  a  dancer,  having  exhibited 
herself  to  the  spectator,  desists  from  the  dance,  so  does 
Nature  desist,  having  manifested  herself  to  soul.  No 
thing,  in  my  opinion,  is  more  gentle  than  Nature  ;  once 
aware  of  having  been  seen,  she  does  not  again  expose 
herself  to  the  gaze  of  soul." 

It  is  easier  to  discover  another  such  a  new  world  as 
Columbus  did,  than  to  go  within  one  fold  of  this  which 
we  appear  to  know  so  well;  the  land  is  lost  sight  of, 
the  compass  varies,  and  mankind  mutiny;  and  still 
history  accumulates  like  rubbish  before  the  portals  of 
nature.  But  there  is  only  necessary  a  moment's  sanity 
and  sound  senses,  to  teach  us  that  there  is  a  nature  be 
hind  the  ordinary,  in  which  we  have  only  some  vague 
preemption  right  and  western  reserve  as  yet.  We  live 
on  the  outskirts  of  that  region.  Carved  wood,  and  float 
ing  boughs,  and  sunset  skies  are  all  that  we  know  of 
it.  We  are  not  to  be  imposed  on  by  the  longest  spell 
of  weather.  Let  us  not,  my  friends,  be  wheedled  and 
cheated  into  good  behavior  to  earn  the  salt  of  our  eter 
nal  porridge,  whoever  they  are  that  attempt  it.  Let 
us  wait  a  little,  and  not  purchase  any  clearing  here, 
trusting  that  richer  bottoms  will  soon  be  put  up.  It  is 
but  thin  soil  where  we  stand;  I  have  felt  my  roots  in 
a  richer  ere  this.  I  have  seen  a  bunch  of  violets  in  a 
glass  vase,  tied  loosely  with  a  straw,  which  reminded 
me  of  myself. 


410  A  WEEK 

I  am  a  parcel  of  vain  strivings  tied 

By  a  chance  bond  together, 
Dangling  this  way  and  that,  their  links 
Were  made  so  loose  and  wide, 

Methinks, 
For  milder  weather. 

A  bunch  of  violets  without  their  roots, 

And  sorrel  intermixed, 
Encircled  by  a  wisp  of  straw 
Once  coiled  about  their  shoots, 

The  law 
By  which  I'm  fixed. 

A  nosegay  which  Time  clutched  from  out 

Those  fair  Elysian  fields, 
With  weeds  and  broken  stems,  in  haste, 
Doth  make  the  rabble  rout 
That  waste 
The  day  he  yields. 

And  here  I  bloom  for  a  short  hour  unseen, 

Drinking  my  juices  up, 
With  no  root  in  the  land 
To  keep  my  branches  green, 

But  stand 
In  a  bare  cup. 

Some  tender  buds  were  left  upon  my  stem 

In  mimicry  of  We, 
But  ah!  the  children  will  not  know, 
Till  time  has  withered  them, 

The  woe 
With  which  they  're  rife. 

But  now  I  see  I  was  not  plucked  for  naught, 

And  after  in  life's  vase 
Of  glass  set  while  I  might  survive, 
But  by  a  kind  hand  brought 

Alive 
To  a  strange  place. 


FRIDAY  411 

That  stock  thus  thinned  will  soon  redeem  its  hours, 

And  by  another  year, 
Such  as  God  knows,  with  freer  air, 
More  fruits  and  fairer  flowers 

Will  bear, 
While  I  droop  here. 

This  world  has  many  rings,  like  Saturn,  and  we 
live  now  on  the  outmost  of  them  all.  None  can  say 
deliberately  that  he  inhabits  the  same  sphere,  or  is 
contemporary,  with  the  flower  which  his  hands  have 
plucked,  and  though  his  feet  may  seem  to  crush  it,  in 
conceivable  spaces  and  ages  separate  them,  and  per 
chance  there  is  no  danger  that  he  will  hurt  it.  What 
do  the  botanists  know  ?  Our  lives  should  go  between 
the  lichen  and  the  bark.  The  eye  may  see  for  the 
hand,  but  not  for  the  mind.  We  are  still  being  born, 
and  have  as  yet  but  a  dim  vision  of  sea  and  land,  sun, 
moon,  and  stars,  and  shall  not  see  clearly  till  after  nine 
days  at  least.  That  is  a  pathetic  inquiry  among  trav 
elers  and  geographers  after  the  site  of  ancient  Troy. 
It  is  not  near  where  they  think  it  is.  When  a  thing  is 
decayed  and  gone,  how  indistinct  must  be  the  place  it 
occupied ! 

The  anecdotes  of  modern  astronomy  affect  me  in  the 
same  way  as  do  those  faint  revelations  of  the  Real  which 
are  vouchsafed  to  men  from  time  to  time,  or  rather  from 
eternity  to  eternity.  When  I  remember  the  history  of 
that  faint  light  in  our  firmament  which  we  call  Venus, 
which  ancient  men  regarded,  and  which  most  modern 
men  still  regard,  as  a  bright  spark  attached  to  a  hollow 
sphere  revolving  about  our  earth,  but  which  we  have 
discovered  to  be  another  world,  in  itself,  —  how  Coper- 


412  A  WEEK 

nicus,  reasoning  long  and  patiently  about  the  matter, 
predicted  confidently  concerning  it,  before  yet  the  tele 
scope  had  been  invented,  that  if  ever  men  came  to  see 
it  more  clearly  than  they  did  then,  they  would  discover 
that  it  had  phases  like  our  moon,  and  that  within  a 
century  after  his  death  the  telescope  was  invented,  and 
that  prediction  verified,  by  Galileo,  —  I  am  not  without 
hope  that  we  may,  even  here  and  now,  obtain  some  ac 
curate  information  concerning  that  OTHER  WORLD  which 
the  instinct  of  mankind  has  so  long  predicted.  Indeed, 
all  that  we  call  science,  as  well  as  all  that  we  call  poetry, 
is  a  particle  of  such  information,  accurate  as  far  as  it 
goes,  though  it  be  but  to  the  confines  of  the  truth.  If  we 
can  reason  so  accurately,  and  with  such  wonderful  con 
firmation  of  our  reasoning,  respecting  so-called  material 
objects  and  events  infinitely  removed  beyond  the  range 
of  our  natural  vision,  so  that  the  mind  hesitates  to 
trust  its  calculations  even  when  they  are  confirmed  by 
observation,  why  may  not  our  speculations  penetrate 
as  far  into  the  immaterial  starry  system,  of  which  the 
former  is  but  the  outward  and  visible  type  ?  Surely, 
we  are  provided  with  senses  as  well  fitted  to  penetrate 
the  spaces  of  the  real,  the  substantial,  the  eternal,  as 
these  outward  are  to  penetrate  the  material  universe. 
Veias,  Menu,  Zoroaster,  Socrates,  Christ,  Shakespeare, 
Swedenborg, — these  are  some  of  our  astronomers. 

There  are  perturbations  in  our  orbits  produced  by 
the  influences  of  outlying  spheres,  and  no  astronomer 
has  ever  yet  calculated  the  elements  of  that  undis 
covered  world  which  produces  them.  I  perceive  in  the 
common  train  of  my  thoughts  a  natural  and  uninter- 


FRIDAY  413 

rupted  sequence,  each  implying  the  next,  or,  if  inter 
ruption  occurs,  it  is  occasioned  by  a  new  object  being 
presented  to  my  senses.  But  a  steep,  and  sudden,  and 
by  these  means  unaccountable  transition  is  that  from 
a  comparatively  narrow  and  partial,  what  is  called 
common-sense  view  of  things,  to  an  infinitely  expanded 
and  liberating  one,  from  seeing  things  as  men  describe 
them,  to  seeing  them  as  men  cannot  describe  them. 
This  implies  a  sense  which  is  not  common,  but  rare 
in  the  wisest  man's  experience  ;  which  is  sensible  or 
sentient  of  more  than  common. 

In  what  inclosures  does  the  astronomer  loiter!  His 
skies  are  shoal,  and  imagination,  like  a  thirsty  traveler, 
pants  to  be  through  their  desert.  The  roving  mind  im 
patiently  bursts  the  fetters  of  astronomical  orbits,  like 
cobwebs  in  a  corner  of  its  universe,  and  launches  itself 
to  where  distance  fails  to  follow,  and  law,  such  as  sci 
ence  has  discovered,  grows  weak  and  weary.  The  mind 
knows  a  distance  and  a  space  of  which  all  those  sums 
combined  do  not  make  a  unit  of  measure,  —  the  inter 
val  between  that  which  appears  and  that  which  is.  I 
know  that  there  are  many  stars,  I  know  that  they  are 
far  enough  off,  bright  enough,  steady  enough  in  their 
orbits,  —  but  what  are  they  all  worth  ?  They  are  more 
waste  land  in  the  West,  —  star  territory,  —  to  be  made 
slave  States,  perchance,  if  we  colonize  them.  I  have 
interest  but  for  six  feet  of  star,  and  that  interest  is 
transient.  Then  farewell  to  all  ye  bodies,  such  as  I 
have  known  ye. 

Every  man,  if  he  is  wise,  will  stand  on  such  bottom 


414  A  WEEK 

as  will  sustain  him,  and  if  one  gravitates  downward 
more  strongly  than  another,  he  will  not  venture  on 
those  meads  where  the  latter  walks  securely,  but  rather 
leave  the  cranberries  which  grow  there  unraked  by 
himself.  Perchance,  some  spring,  a  higher  freshet  will 
float  them  within  his  reach,  though  they  may  be  watery 
and  frost-bitten  by  that  time.  Such  shriveled  berries  I 
have  seen  in  many  a  poor  man's  garret,  ay,  in  many 
a  church-bin  and  state-coffer,  and  with  a  little  water 
and  heat  they  swell  again  to  their  original  size  and 
fairness,  and  added  sugar  enough,  stead  mankind  for 
sauce  to  this  world's  dish. 

What  is  called  common  sense  is  excellent  in  its  de 
partment,  and  as  invaluable  as  the  virtue  of  conformity 
in  the  army  and  navy,  —  for  there  must  be  subordina 
tion,  —  but  uncommon  sense,  that  sense  which  is  com 
mon  only  to  the  wisest,  is  as  much  more  excellent  as  it 
is  more  rare.  Some  aspire  to  excellence  in  the  subor 
dinate  department,  and  may  God  speed  them.  What 
Fuller  says  of  masters  of  colleges  is  universally  appli 
cable,  that  "a  little  alloy  of  dullness  in  a  master  of  a 
college  makes  him  fitter  to  manage  secular  affairs." 

"He  that  wants  faith,  and  apprehends  a  grief 
Because  he  wants  it,  hath  a  true  belief; 
And  he  that  grieves  because  his  grief  's  so  small, 
Has  a  true  grief,  and  the  best  Faith  of  all." 

Or  be  encouraged  by  this  other  poet's  strain: — 

"By  them  went  Fido,  marshal  of  the  field: 

Weak  was  his  mother  when  she  gave  him  day; 
And  he  at  first  a  sick  and  weakly  child, 
As  e'er  with  tears  welcomed  the  sunny  ray; 


FRIDAY  415 

Yet  when  more  years  afford  more  growth  and  might, 
A  champion  stout  he  was,  and  puissant  knight, 
As  ever  came  in  field,  or  shone  in  armor  bright. 

"Mountains  he  flings  in  seas  with  mighty  hand; 

Stops  and  turns  back  the  sun's  impetuous  course; 
Nature  breaks  Nature's  laws  at  his  command; 

No  force  of  Hell  or  Heaven  withstands  his  force; 
Events  to  come  yet  many  ages  hence, 
He  present  makes,  by  wondrous  prescience; 
Proving  the  senses  blind  by  being  blind  to  sense." 

"  Yesterday,  at  dawn,"  says  Hafiz,  "  God  delivered  me 
from  all  worldly  affliction;  and  amidst  the  gloom  of 
night  presented  me  with  the  water  of  immortality." 

In  the  life  of  Sadi  by  Dowlat  Shah  occurs  this  sen 
tence:  "The  eagle  of  the  immaterial  soul  of  Shaikh 
Sadi  shook  from  his  plumage  the  dust  of  his  body." 


Thus  thoughtfully  we  were  rowing  homeward  to  find 
some  autumnal  work  to  do,  and  help  on  the  revolution 
of  the  seasons.  Perhaps  Nature  would  condescend  to 
make  use  of  us  even  without  our  knowledge,  as  when 
we  help  to  scatter  her  seeds  in  our  walks,  and  carry 
burs  and  cockles  on  our  clothes  from  field  to  field. 

All  things  are  current  found 
On  earthly  ground, 
Spirits  and  elements 
Have  their  descents. 

Night  and  day,  year  on  year, 
High  and  low,  far  and  near, 
These  are  our  own  aspects, 
These  are  our  own  regrets. 


416  A  WEEK 

Ye  gods  of  the  shore, 
Who  abide  evermore, 
I  see  your  far  headland, 
Stretching  on  either  hand; 

I  hear  the  sweet  evening  sounds 
From  your  undecaying  grounds; 
Cheat  me  no  more  with  time, 
Take  me  to  your  clime. 

As  it  grew  later  in  the  afternoon,  and  we  rowed  lei 
surely  up  the  gentle  stream,  shut  in  between  fragrant 
and  blooming  banks,  where  we  had  first  pitched  our 
tent,  and  drew  nearer  to  the  fields  where  our  lives 
had  passed,  we  seemed  to  detect  the  hues  of  our  na 
tive  sky  in  the  southwest  horizon.  The  sun  was  just 
setting  behind  the  edge  of  a  wooded  hill,  so  rich  a  sun 
set  as  would  never  have  ended  but  for  some  reason 
unknown  to  men,  and  to  be  marked  with  brighter  col 
ors  than  ordinary  in  the  scroll  of  time.  Though  the 
shadows  of  the  hills  were  beginning  to  steal  over  the 
stream,  the  whole  river  valley  undulated  with  mild 
light,  purer  and  more  memorable  than  the  noon.  For 
so  day  bids  farewell  even  to  solitary  vales  uninhab 
ited  by  man.  Two  herons  (Ardea  herodias),  with  their 
long  and  slender  limbs  relieved  against  the  sky,  were 
seen  traveling  high  over  our  heads,  —  their  lofty  and 
silent  flight,  as  they  were  wending  their  way  at  even 
ing,  surely  not  to  alight  in  any  marsh  on  the  earth's 
surface,  but,  perchance,  on  the  other  side  of  our  at 
mosphere,  a  symbol  for  the  ages  to  study,  whether 
impressed  upon  the  sky  or  sculptured  amid  the  hiero 
glyphics  of  Egypt.  Bound  to  some  northern  meadow, 


FRIDAY  417 

they  held  on  their  stately,  stationary  flight,  like  the 
storks  in  the  picture,  and  disappeared  at  length  behind 
the  clouds.  Dense  flocks  of  blackbirds  were  winging 
their  way  along  the  river's  course,  as  if  on  a  short 
evening  pilgrimage  to  some  shrine  of  theirs,  or  to  cele 
brate  so  fair  a  sunset. 

"Therefore,  as  doth  the  pilgrim,  whom  the  night 

Hastes  darkly  to  imprison  on  his  way, 
Think  on  thy  home,  my  soul,  and  think  aright 
Of  what's  yet  left  thee  of  life's  wasting  day: 

Thy  sun  posts  westward,  passed  is  thy  mom, 
And  twice  it  is  not  given  thee  to  be  born." 

The  sun-setting  presumed  all  men  at  leisure,  and  in 
a  contemplative  mood;  but  the  farmer's  boy  only 
whistled  the  more  thoughtfully  as  he  drove  his  cows 
home  from  pasture,  and  the  teamster  refrained  from 
cracking  his  whip,  and  guided  his  team  with  a  subdued 
voice.  The  last  vestiges  of  daylight  at  length  disap 
peared,  and  as  we  rowed  silently  along  with  our  backs 
toward  home  through  the  darkness,  only  a  few  stars 
being  visible,  we  had  little  to  say,  but  sat  absorbed  in 
thought,  or  in  silence  listened  to  the  monotonous  sound 
of  our  oars,  a  sort  of  rudimental  music,  suitable  for 
the  ear  of  Night  and  the  acoustics  of  her  dimly  lighted 
halls; 

"Pulsae  referunt  ad  sidera  valles," 

and  the  valleys  echoed  the  sound  to  the  stars. 

As  we  looked  up  in  silence  to  those  distant  lights, 
we  were  reminded  that  it  was  a  rare  imagination  which 
first  taught  that  the  stars  are  worlds,  and  had  conferred 
a  great  benefit  on  mankind.  It  is  recorded  in  the 


418  A  WEEK 

Chronicle  of  Bernaldez  that  in  Columbus's  first  voyage 
the  natives  "  pointed  towards  the  heavens,  making 
signs  that  they  believed  that  there  was  all  power  and 
holiness."  We  have  reason  to  be  grateful  for  celestial 
phenomena,  for  they  chiefly  answer  to  the  ideal  in 
man.  The  stars  are  distant  and  unobtrusive,  but  bright 
and  enduring  as  our  fairest  and  most  memorable  ex 
periences.  "  Let  the  immortal  depth  of  your  soul  lead 
you,  but  earnestly  extend  your  eyes  upwards." 

As  the  truest  society  approaches  always  nearer  to 
solitude,  so  the  most  excellent  speech  finally  falls  into 
Silence.  Silence  is  audible  to  all  men,  at  all  times, 
and  in  all  places.  She  is  when  we  hear  inwardly, 
sound  when  we  hear  outwardly.  Creation  has  not  dis 
placed  her,  but  is  her  visible  framework  and  foil.  All 
sounds  are  her  servants,  and  purveyors,  proclaiming 
not  only  that  their  mistress  is,  but  is  a  rare  mistress, 
and  earnestly  to  be  sought  after.  They  are  so  far  akin 
to  Silence  that  they  are  but  bubbles  on  her  surface, 
which  straightway  burst,  an  evidence  of  the  strength 
and  prolificness  of  the  under-current ;  a  faint  utterance 
of  Silence,  and  then  only  agreeable  to  our  auditory 
nerves  when  they  contrast  themselves  with  and  relieve 
the  former.  In  proportion  as  they  do  this,  and  are 
heighteners  and  intensifies  of  the  Silence,  they  are 
harmony  and  purest  melody. 

Silence  is  the  universal  refuge,  the  sequel  to  all  dull 
discourses  and  all  foolish  acts,  a  balm  to  our  every 
chagrin,  as  welcome  after  satiety  as  after  disappoint 
ment;  that  background  which  the  painter  may  not 


FRIDAY  419 

daub,  be  he  master  or  bungler,  and  which,  however 
awkward  a  figure  we  may  have  made  in  the  fore 
ground,  remains  ever  our  inviolable  asylum,  where  no 
indignity  can  assail,  no  personality  disturb  us. 

The  orator  puts  off  his  individuality,  and  is  then 
most  eloquent  when  most  silent.  He  listens  while  he 
speaks,  and  is  a  hearer  along  with  his  audience.  Who 
has  not  hearkened  to  her  infinite  din  ?  She  is  Truth's 
speaking-trumpet,  the  sole  oracle,  the  true  Delphi  and 
Dodona,  which  kings  and  courtiers  would  do  well  to 
consult,  nor  will  they  be  balked  by  an  ambiguous  an 
swer.  For  through  her  all  revelations  have  been  made, 
and  just  in  proportion  as  men  have  consulted  her  ora 
cle  within,  they  have  obtained  a  clear  insight,  and 
their  age  has  been  marked  as  an  enlightened  one.  But 
as  often  as  they  have  gone  gadding  abroad  to  a  strange 
Delphi  and  her  mad  priestess,  their  age  has  been  dark 
and  leaden.  Such  were  garrulous  and  noisy  eras, 
which  no  longer  yield  any  sound,  but  the  Grecian  or 
silent  and  melodious  era  is  ever  sounding  and  resound 
ing  in  the  ears  of  men. 

A  good  book  is  the  plectrum  with  which  our  else 
silent  lyres  are  struck.  We  not  unfrequently  refer  the 
interest  which  belongs  to  our  own  unwritten  sequel 
to  the  written  and  comparatively  lifeless  body  of  the 
work.  Of  all  books  this  sequel  is  the  most  indispensa 
ble  part.  It  should  be  the  author's  aim  to  say  once 
and  emphatically,  "  He  said,"  e^.  This  is  the  most 
the  bookmaker  can  attain  to.  If  he  make  his  volume 
a  mole  whereon  the  waves  of  Silence  may  break, 
it  is  well. 


420  A  WEEK 

It  were  vain  for  me  to  endeavor  to  interpret  the  Si 
lence.  She  cannot  be  done  into  English.  For  six 
thousand  years  men  have  translated  her  with  what 
fidelity  belonged  to  each,  and  still  she  is  little  better 
than  a  sealed  book.  A  man  may  run  on  confidently  for 
a  time,  thinking  he  has  her  under  his  thumb,  and  shall 
one  day  exhaust  her,  but  he  too  must  at  last  be  silent, 
and  men  remark  only  how  brave  a  beginning  he  made; 
for  when  he  at  length  dives  into  her,  so  vast  is  the 
disproportion  of  the  told  to  the  untold  that  the  for 
mer  will  seem  but  the  bubble  on  the  surface  where  he 
disappeared.  Nevertheless,  we  will  go  on,  like  those 
Chinese  cliff  swallows,  feathering  our  nests  with  the 
froth  which  may  one  day  be  bread  of  life  to  such  as 
dwell  by  the  seashore. 

We  had  made  about  fifty  miles  this  day  with  sail 
and  oar,  and  now,  far  in  the  evening,  our  boat  was 
grating  against  the  bulrushes  of  its  native  port,  and  its 
keel  recognized  the  Concord  mud,  where  some  sem 
blance  of  its  outline  was  still  preserved  in  the  flattened 
flags  which  had  scarce  yet  erected  themselves  since  our 
departure;  and  we  leaped  gladly  on  shore,  drawing  it 
up  and  fastening  it  to  the  wild  apple  tree,  whose  stem 
still  bore  the  mark  which  its  chain  had  worn  in  the 
chafing  of  the  spring  freshets. 


TABLE  OF  POETICAL  QUOTATIONS 


TABLE   OF   POETICAL   QUOTATIONS 

USED    IN 


PAGE 

2.  Flwninaque  obliquis  cinxit  declivia  ripis  (He  confined  the 

rivers).  —  OVID. 

3.  Beneath  low  hills,  in  the  broad  interval.  —  EMERSON. 
10.  And  thou  Simois,  that  as  an  arrowe,  clere. 

10.  Sure  there  are  poets  which  did  never  dream. 

12.  Come,  come,  my  lovely  fan-,  and  let  us  try.  —  FRANCIS 

QUARLES. 

13.  Were  it  the  will  of  Heaven,  an  osier  bough.  —  PINDAR, 

tr.  by  Emerson. 

14.  By  the  rude  bridge  that  arched  the  flood.  —  EMERSON. 
21.  —  renning  aie  downward  to  the  sea. 

34.  —  a  beggar  on  the  way. 

35.  That  bold  adopts  each  house  he  views,  his  own. 
42.  The  river  calmly  flows.  —  W.  E.  CHANNING. 

44.  There  is  an  inward  voice,  that  in  the  stream.  —  W.  E. 

CHANNING. 

46.  Sweet  falls  the  summer  air.  —  W.  E.  CHANNING. 
48.  A  man  that  looks  on  glass.  —  GEORGE  HERBERT. 
50.  Bedford,  most  noble  Bedford. 

56.  Some  nation  yet  shut  in.  —  WILLIAM  HABINGTON. 

57.  And  ladahel,  as  saith  the  boke.  —  JOHN  GOWER. 

57.  Jason  first  sayled,  in  story  it  is  tolde.  —  JOHN  LYDGATE. 

64.  The  seventh  is  a  holy  day.  —  HESIOD. 

68.  Where   is   this   love   become   in  later  age  ?  —  FRANCIS 

QUARLES. 

68.  The  world's  a  popular  disease,  that  reigns. 
68.  All  the  world's  a  stage.  —  SHAKESPEARE. 
88.  Doth  grow  the  greater  still,  the  further  downe. 
92.  So  silent  is  the  cessile  air. 


424  POETICAL   QUOTATIONS 

93.  Jam  laeto  turgent  in  palmite  gemmae.  —  VIRGIL. 

93.  Strata  jacent  passim  sua  quaeque  sub  arbor e  poma.  —  VIR 
GIL. 

95.  As  from  the  clouds  appears  the  full  moon.  —  HOMER. 

95.  While  it  was  dawn,  and  sacred  day  was  advancing.  — 
HOMER. 

95.  They,  thinking  great  things,  upon  the  neutral  ground 

of  war.  —  HOMER. 

96.  Went  down  the  Idaean  mountains  to  far  Olympus.  — 

HOMER. 
96.  For  there  are  very  many.  —  HOMER. 

96.  Then  rose  up  to  them  sweet-worded  Nestor,  the  shrill 

orator  of  the  Pylians.  —  HOMER. 

97.  Homer  is  gone;   and  where  is  Jove?   and  where. 
99.  You  grov'ling  worldlings,  you  whose  wisdom  trades. 

100.  Merchants,  arise.  —  FRANCIS  QUARLES. 

100.  To  Athens  gowned  he  goes,  and  from  that  school.  — 

FRANCIS  QUARLES. 

101.  What  I  have  learned  is  mine;   I've  had  my  thought. 

102.  —  ask  for  that  which  is  our  whole  life's  light. 

102.  Let  us  set  so  just.  —  WILLIAM  HABINGTON. 

103.  Olympian  bards  who  sung.  —  EMERSON. 

104.  —  lips  of  cunning  fell.  —  EMERSON. 

104.  That  't  is  not  in  the  power  of  kings  to  raise.  —  SAM 
UEL  DANIEL. 

104.  And  that  the  utmost  powers  of  English  rhyme.  —  SAM 

UEL  DANIEL. 

105.  And  who,  in  tune,  knows  whither  we  may  vent.  —  SAM 

UEL  DANIEL. 

106.  How  many  thousands  never  heard  the  name.  —  SAMUEL 

DANIEL. 

113.  —  campoque  recepta.  —  OVID. 

115.  Make  bandog  thy  scout  watch  to  bark  at  a  thief. 

121.  I  thynke  for  to  touche  also.  —  JOHN  GOWER. 

121.  The  hye  sheryfe  of  Notynghame.  —  ROBIN  HOOD  BAL 
LADS. 

121.  His  shoote  it  was  but  loosely  shott.  —  ROBIN  HOOD 
BALLADS. 


POETICAL  QUOTATIONS  425 

121.  Gazed  on  the  Heavens  for  what  he  missed  on  Earth.  — 

WILLIAM  BROWNE. 
121.  All  courageous  knichtis. 

123.  He  and  his  valiant  soldiers  did  range  the  woods  full 

wide.  —  OLD  BALLAD  OF  LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT. 

124.  Of    all    our   valiant    English,  there   were   but  thirty- 

four.  —  OLD  BALLAD  OF  LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT. 

124.  And  braving  many  dangers  and  hardships  in  the  way.  — 

OLD  BALLAD  OF  LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT. 

125.  A  man  he  was  of  comely  form. 

126.  For  as  we  are  informed,  so  thick  and  fast  they  fell.  — 

OLD  BALLAD  OF  LOVEWELL'S  FIGHT. 

129.  Yet  I  doubt  not  through  the  ages  one  increasing  purpose 
runs.  —  TENNYSON. 

132.  Men  find  that  action  is  another  thing  —  SAMUEL 
DANIEL. 

134.  And  round  about  good  morrows  fly.  —  CHARLES  COT 
TON. 

134.  The  early  pilgrim  blythe  he  hailed.  —  ROBIN  HOOD  BAL 
LADS. 

136.  Now  turn  again,  turn  again,  said  the  pinder.  —  OLD 

BALLAD. 

137.  Virtues  as  rivers  pass. 

163.  Thro*   the   shadow   of   the   globe   we  sweep  into  the 

younger  day.  —  TENNYSON. 

164.  Fragments  of  the  lofty  strain.  —  GRAY. 

174.  They  carried  these  foresters  into  fair  Nottingham.  — 

ROBIN  HOOD  BALLADS. 

175.  Gentle  river,  gentle  river.  —  SPANISH  BALLAD  IN  PERCY: 

"Rio  verde,  rio  verde." 

176.  Then  did  the  crimson  streams  that  flowed. 

181.  When  the  drum  beat  at  dead  of  night.  —  CAMPBELL. 

186.  Before  each  van.  —  MILTON. 

188.  On  either  side  the  river  lie.  —  TENNYSON. 

198.  Heaven  itself  shall  slide. 

199.  Flatter  the  mountain-tops  with  sovereign  eye.  —  SHAKE 

SPEARE. 
199.  Anon  permit  the  basest  clouds  to  ride. 


426  POETICAL  QUOTATIONS 

199.  How  may  a  worm  that  crawls  along  the  dust.  —  GILES 

FLETCHER. 
202.  And  now  the  taller  sons,  whom  Titan  warms.  —  GILES 

FLETCHER. 

214.  In  a  pleasant  glade.  —  SPENSER. 
219.  Amongst  the  pumy  stones,  which  seemed  to  plain.  — 

SPENSER. 

219.  His  reverend  locks.  —  BISHOP  PERCY. 
230.  Of  Syrian  peace,  immortal  leisure.  —  EMERSON. 
236.  Too  quick  resolves  do  resolution  wrong. 
238.  Nor  has  he  ceased  his  charming  song,  for  still  that  lyre.  — 

SIMONIDES. 

240.  The  young  and  tender  stalk. 
240-244.  Translations  from  Anacreon. 
249.  Man  is  man's  foe  and  destiny.  —  CHARLES  COTTON. 

258.  He  knew  of  our  haste.  —  PINDAR. 

259.  —  springing  up  from  the  bottom.  —  PINDAR. 
259.  The  island  sprang  from  the  watery.  —  PINDAR. 

264.  Rome  living  was  the  world's  sole  ornament.  —  SPENSER. 
266.  —  bees  that  fly. 

283.  He  that  hath  love  and  judgment  too. 
283.  Why  love  among  the  virtues  is  not  known.  —  DR.  DONNE. 
288.  And  love  as  well  the  shepherd  can. 
291.  When  manhood  shall  be  matched  so. 
293.  There  be  mo  sterres  in  the  skie  than  a  pair.  —  CHAU 
CER. 

314.  Silver  sands  and  pebljles  sing. 

315.  Who  dreamt  devoutlier  than  most  use  to  pray.  —  DR. 

DONNE. 

316.  And,  more  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft.  —  SPENSER. 

317.  He  trode  the  unplanted  forest  floor,  whereon.  —  EMER 

SON. 

327-332.  Lines  from  Persius. 

335.  Sweet  day,  so  cool,  so  calm,  so  bright.  —  GEORGE  HER 
BERT. 

337.  To  journey  for  his  marriage.  —  CHAUCER. 

338.  —  The  swaying  soft.  —  W.  E.  CHANNING. 

340.  Not  only  o'er  the  dial's  face.  —  J.  MONTGOMERY. 


POETICAL   QUOTATIONS  427 

347.  Old  woman  that  lives  under  the  hill.  —  NURSERY  BAL 
LAD. 
350.  The  laws  of  Nature  break  the  rules  of  Art.  —  FRANCIS 

QUARLES. 

356.  The  Boteman  strayt.  —  SPENSER. 

356.  Summer's  robe  grows.  —  DR.  DONNE. 

357.  And  now  the  cold  autumnal  dews  are  seen. 

359.  From  steep  pine-bearing  mountains  to  the  plain.  — 
MARLOWE. 

359.  Wise  Nature's  darlings,  they  live  in  the  world.  —  MAR 
LOWE. 

359.  —  at  all,  Came  lovers  home  from  this  great  festival.  — 
MARLOWE. 

367-371.  Lines  from  Ossian. 

377.  And  what 's  a  life  ?    The  flourishing  array.  —  FRANCIS 

QUARLES. 

378.  I  see  the  goldenrod  shine  bright.  —  W.  E.  CHANNING. 
397.  For  first  the  thing  is  thought  within  the  hart.  —  CHAUCER. 
399.  If  that  God  that  heaven  and  yearth  made.  —  CHAUCER. 
403.  There  is  a  place  beyond  that  flaming  hill.  —  SIR  WILLIAM 

DAVENANT. 

405.  The  earth,  the  air,  and  seas  I  know,  and  all. 

406.  Although  we  see  celestial  bodies  move. 

406.  Largior  hie  campos  aether  et  lumine  vestit.  —  VIRGIL. 

407.  Unless  above  himself  he  can.  —  SAMUEL  DANIEL. 
407.  I  asked  the  schoolman,  his  advice  was  free.  —  FRANCIS 

QUARLES. 
414.  He  that  wants  faith,  and  apprehends  a  grief.  —  FRANCIS 

QUARLES. 
414.  By  them  went  Fido,  marshal  of  the  field.  —  PHINEAS 

FLETCHER. 
417.  Therefore,  as  doth  the  pilgrim,  whom  the  night.  — 

GILES  FLETCHER. 
417.  Pulsae  referunt  ad  sidera  vattes.  —  VIRGIL. 


INDEX 


"  A  FINER  race  and  finer  fed,"  verse, 

407. 
Advertisements,   the  best  part  of 

newspapers,  194. 
Agassiz,  Louis,  26,  31. 
Agiocochook,  335. 
"  Ah,  't  is  in  vain  the  peaceful  din," 

verse,  15. 
Alewives,  32. 
"All  things   are   current  found," 

verse,  415. 

Amonoosuck,  the,  334. 
Amoskeag  Falls,  259,  260,  337. 
Amoskeag  (N.  H.),  261,  262,  271,  273, 

307. 
"An     early    unconverted    saint," 

verse,  42. 
Anacreon,     238-240 ;       translations 

from,  240-244. 
Andover  (Mass.),  124. 
Antiquities,  264,  265-267. 
Apprentices,  the  abundance  of,  129. 
"  Apple  tree,  Elisha's,"  380. 
Aristotle,  quoted,  133,  386. 
Armchairs  for  fishermen,  91. 
Arrowhead,  18. 
Art  and  nature,  339. 
Assabet  River,  North  or,  4. 
Astronomy,  411-413. 
Atlantides,  The,  verse,  278. 
Aubrey,  John,  quoted,  112. 
Autumn,  the  coming  of,  356;  flowers 

of,  377-379;  403. 
Average  ability,  man's   success   in 

proportion  to  his,  133. 
"  Away !    away  !     away !      away  ! " 

verse,  186. 

Baboosuck  Brook,  232. 
Background,  all  lives  want  a,  45. 
Baker's  River,  87,  268. 
BaU's  Hill,  19,  37,  43. 
Bass  tree,  the,  166. 
Battle-ground,  first  of  the  Revolu 
tion,  14. 

Beach  plum,  the,  381. 
Beaumont,  Francis,  quoted,  69. 
Beaver  River,  92. 


Bedford  (Mass.),  4,  37;  petition  of 

planters  of,  50;  53,  62. 
Bedford  (N.  H.),  247, 248, 251, 252. 
Belknap,  Jeremy,  quoted,  91, 127, 189, 

201. 

Bellows,  valley  called  the,  189. 
Bellows  Falls  (Vt.),  91. 
Bells,  the  sound  of  Sabbath,  78. 
Bhagvat-Geeta,    the,   quoted,    140; 

pure  thought  of  the,  142;    beauty 

of  the,  148,  153. 

Bibles  of  several  nations,  the,  72. 
Billerica  (Mass.),  4,  32,  36, 38, 43;  age 

of  the  town  of,  49;  51,  53,  62,  119, 

391. 
Biography,  autobiography  the  best, 

163. 

Biscuit  Brook,  380. 
Bittern,  the,  249. 
Boat,  T.'s,  12;  hints  for  making  a, 

13. 

Boat-building,  228. 
Boatmen,  the  pleasant  lives  of,  220- 

226. 
Books,  the  reading  and  writing  of, 

93-112. 

Botta,  Paul  Emile,  quoted,  107, 130. 
Bound  Rock,  5. 
Bradford  (N.  H.),  380. 
Brahm,  the  bringing  to  earth  of, 

141. 

Brahman,  virtue  of  the,  146. 
Bream,  the,  24-26. 
Britannia's  Pastorals,  quoted,  121. 
Browne,  Sir  Thomas,  quoted,  69. 
Buddha  and  Christ,  68. 
Buried  money,  208. 
"  But  since  we  sailed,"  verse,  16. 
Buttrick's  Plain,  51. 

Calidas,  the  Sacontala,  quoted,  183. 

Canaan  (N.  H.),  263. 

Canal,  an  old,  62. 

Canal-boat,  appearance  of  a,  150 ; 
passing  a,  in  fog,  200;  later  and 
early  thoughts  about  a,  221-226; 
with  sails,  273,  274. 

Cardinals,  18. 


430 


INDEX 


Carlisle  Bridge,  20,  37. 

Carlisle  (Mass.),  4,  37,  50,  53. 

Carnac,  267. 

Cattle-Show,  the  Concord,  358-361. 

Charming,  W.  E.,  quoted,  42. 

Chateaubriand,  quoted,  137. 

Chaucer,  Geoffrey,  quoted,  293,  352, 
353;  in  praise  of,  391-400. 

Chelmsford  (Mass.),  53,  63,  81,  85,  88, 
92,  113,  268,  384,  391. 

Chivin,  dace,  roach,  or  cousin  trout, 
27. 

Christianity,  practical  and  radical, 
141. 

Classics,  study  of  the,  238. 

Coat-of-arms,  a  Concord,  7. 

Cohass  Brook,  250. 

Cohasset,  the  Indian,  251. 

Commerce,  224. 

Common  and  uncommon  sense,  414. 

Conantum,  374. 

Concord  (Mass.),  settlement  of,  3; 
historian  of,  quoted,  3;  5;  coat-of- 
arms  for,  7;  territory  of,  in  1831, 
8 ;  described  by  Johnson,  8; 
meadows,  9;  a  port  of  entry,  12; 
14;  poet,  a,  14;  36,  43,  49,  51,  61, 
64,  82,  124;  history  of,  quoted, 
125;  169;  Cliffs,  170;  227,  345; 
Cattle-Show  in,  358-361  ;  return 
to,  420. 

Concord  (N.  H.),  88,89;  268,308;  enter 
tained  in,  322;  origin  of,  322,  323. 

CONCORD  RIVER,  3-11. 

Concord  River,  3;  course  of,  3;  gen 
tleness  of,  7;  10,  11,  19,  20,  62,  90, 
113;  a  canal-boat  on,  and  Fair 
Haven,  222-224;  Conantum  on 
the,  374;  reaching  the,  391. 

Confucius,  quoted,  288,  299. 

Connecticut  River,  the,  87,  88,  89, 
212,  263. 

Conscience,  the,  75, 138;  the  chief  of 
conservatives,  140. 

"  Conscience  is  instinct  bred  in  the 
house,"  verse,  75. 

Conservatism,  the  wisest,  140. 

Contoocook,  87. 

Cooking,  237. 

Coos  Falls,  248,  353. 

Coreopsis,  18. 

Cotton,  Charles,  quoted,  249. 

Cousin  trout.  See  Chivin. 

Cranberry  Island,  6. 

Criticism,  401. 


Cromwell's  Falls,  88;  story  of  Crom 
well  and,  206,  207. 

Crooked  River,  the  Souhegan  or, 
231. 

Crusoe,  Robinson,  among  the  Arabs, 
60. 

Cultivation,  wildness  and,  55. 

Cupid  Wounded,  verse,  244. 

Custom,  the  grave  of,  136;  imme 
morial,  140. 

Dace.    See  Chivin. 

Daggers,  looking,  79. 

De  Monts,  Sieur,  quoted,  42. 

Discovery,  inner,  409. 

Dogs,  barking  of  house,  40. 

"Dong,   sounds   the   brass   in  the 

east,"  verse,  50. 

Donne,  Dr.  John,  quoted,  315,  356. 
Dracut  (Mass.),  81. 
Dreams,  119,  315. 
Drum,  sound  of  a,  by  night,  181. 
Dunstable  (Mass.),  64,  114,  123,  124, 

128,  174,  175,  177,  208,  227 ;  history 

of,  175;  quoted,  113,  126. 
Dustan,  Hannah,  escape  with  nurse 

and  child  from  Indians,  341-345. 

Eel,  the  common,  31. 

Eel,  the  lamprey,  31. 

Election-birds,  56. 

Eliot,  John,  82. 

Emerson,  R.  W.,  quoted,  3,  14,  103, 

104,  317. 

End  of  Nature's  creatures,  the,  236. 
Epitaphs,  177,  178. 
Extemporaneous  living,  332. 
Eyes,  movement  of  the,  80. 

Fable,  the  universal  appeal  of,  58; 
the  Christian,  67. 

Fair  Haven,  a  canal-boat  on,  224. 

Farwell  of  Dunstable,  174-176,  208. 

Fisherman,  the,  21 ;  account  current 
of  a,  33. 

Fishes,  the  nature  of,  23. 

Fish  hawk,  the,  205.' 

Flea,  deserts  made  by  bite  of  a, 
209. 

Floating  in  a  skiff  as  if  in  mid-air, 
48. 

Flowers,  autumn,  377. 

Fog,  early  morning,  188,  200,  201;  pic 
turesque  effect  of,  201,  202. 

Fox  Island,  43. 


INDEX 


431 


Framingham  (Mass.),  4,  53. 

Franconia  (N.  H.),  89. 

Freshet  on  the  Merrimack,  379. 

FRIDAY,  356-420. 

Friends  and  Friendship,  275-307. 

Frontiers,  wherever  men  front,  323. 

Fuller,  Thomas,  quoted,  265,  414. 

Gazetteer,  reading  the,  92;  quoted, 
206,  207,  259,  260,  269-271. 

Genius,  order  in  the  development  of, 
329;  the  man  of,  350;  a  man  and 
his,  362. 

Gerardia,  the  purple,  18. 

Gesner,  Konrad  von,  quoted,  389. 

God,  T.'s  idea  of,  65,  66;  men's  im 
pertinent  knowledge  of,  70,  71; 
the  personality  of,  79. 

Goethe,  347-350;    quoted,  351-353. 

Goff ' s  Falls,  251. 

Goffstown  (N.  H.),  205,  260,  271, 
274. 

Gookin,  Daniel,  quoted,  82, 114, 175, 
176,  267. 

Gower,  John,  quoted,  57,  121. 

Grape  Island,  43. 

Grass-ground  River,  3,  32. 

Graves,  Indian,  251. 

Graveyards,  monuments  and,  177. 

Great  Meadows,  the,  3, 16. 

"  Greece,  who  am  I  that  should  re 
member  thee,"  verse,  54. 

Griffith's  Falls,  257. 

Groton  (Mass.),  169. 

Hafiz,  quoted,  415. 

Half  lives,  how  the  other,  227. 

Hampstead  (N.  H.),  185,  202. 

Harebell,  the,  92. 

Hastings,  Warren,  quoted,  142,  143. 

Haverhill  (Mass.),  87,  89,  185,  202; 
historian  of,  quoted,  322  ;  342. 

Haystack,  the,  86. 

Haze,  229. 

Heaven,  405-409. 

Heetopades  of  Veeshnoo  Sarma,  153. 

Henry,  Alexander,  Adventures  of, 
228,  230,  231  ;  Wawatam's  friend 
ship  with,  291. 

Herons,  416. 

Hesiod,  quoted,  64. 

Hibiscus,  19. 

History,  the  reading  and  the  anti 
quity  of,  161-163. 

Homer,  97,  394. 


Hooksett  (N.  H.),  225,  251,  260,  273, 
274,  308,  309,  335;  Pinnacle,  318; 
Falls,  322. 

Hoosack  Mountain,  T.'s  ascent  of. 


Hopkinton  (Mass.),  4,  32. 
"  Horses  have  the  mark,"  verse,  243. 
Horseshoe  Interval,  the,  126,  377. 
Hudson  (N.  H.),  151,  152,  153,  169. 
Huguenots  of  Staten  Island,  190. 

"  I  am  a  parcel  of  vain  strivings 
tied,"  verse,  410. 

"  I  am  bound,  I  am  bound  for  a  dis 
tant  shore,"  verse,  2. 

"  I  am  the  autumnal  sun,"  verse,  404. 

"  I  hearing  get,  who  had  but  ears," 
verse,  392. 

"  I  make  ye  an  offer,"  verse,  69. 

"  I  sailed  up  a  river  with  a  pleasant 
wind,"  verse,  2. 

"  I  wish  to  sing  the  Atridae,"  verse, 
240. 

Iliad,  enduring  beauty  of  the,  97. 

"In  vain  I  see  the  morning  rise," 
verse,  366. 

Incivility,  examples  of,  212-220. 

Indian,  crowding  out  of  the,  by 
whites,  53 ;  civilizing  the,  55  ;  con 
version  of  the,  82-85;  capture  of 
two  Dunstable  men,  174;  attacks, 
letters  to  Governor  about  ex 
pected,  232,  233;  captivity,  escape 
of  Hannah  Dustan  and  others 
from,  341-345. 

Infidelity,  the  real,  77. 

Institutions,  the  burden  of,  135, 136. 

Inward  Morning,  The,  verse,  313. 

Islands,  257,  258. 

"  It  doth  expand  my  privacies," 
verse,  182. 

Jamblichus,  quoted,  184. 

Jesus  Christ,  effect  of  the  story  of, 
67;  prince  of  Reformers  and  Rad 
icals,  142. 

Johnson,  Edward,  quoted,  8. 

Jones,  Sir  William,  154. 

Josselyn,  John,  27,  29. 

Kearsarge,  86. 

Kreeshna,  teachings  of,  144-146. 

Ladies'-tresses,  18. 
Lamprey  eel,  31. 


432 


INDEX 


Lancaster  (Mass.),  169. 

"  Lately,  alas,  I  knew  a  gentle  boy," 
verse,  276. 

Lawrence  (Mass.),  89. 

"Let  such  pure  hate  still  under 
prop,"  verse,  305. 

Life,  the  world  and,  310-316. 

Lincoln  (Mass.),  5. 

Litchfleld  (N.  H.),  204,  206,  227. 

Londonderry  (N.  H.),  92,  268. 

"Love  once  among  roses,"  verse, 
244. 

"  Love  walking  swiftly,"  verse,  242. 

"  Lovely  dove,"  verse,  241. 

Lovewell,  Captain,  and  his  Indian 
fight,  123;  John,  father  of,  168;  176. 

"Low-anchored  cloud,"  verse,  201. 

"  Low  in  the  eastern  sky,"  verse,  46. 

Lowell  (Mass.),  4,  31,  32,  39,  85,  87,  89, 
115,  117,  225,  251,  264. 

Lyceum,  the,  102. 

Lydgate,  John,  quoted,  57. 

Mad  River,  87. 

Manchester  (N.  H.),  89,  225,  250,  251, 
260,  264,  268,  274. 

"  Man's  little  acts  are  grand,"  verse, 
224. 

Massabesic  Lake,  89,  250. 

Massachusetts,  T.'s  wish  not  to  be 
associated  with,  135. 

Mathematics,  386. 

McGaw's  Island,  245. 

Meadow  River,  Musketaquid  or,  8. 

Melon,  buying  a,  335. 

"Men  are  by  birth  equal  in  this, 
that  given,"  verse,  311. 

11  Men  dig  and  dive,  but  cannot  my 
wealth  spend,"  verse,  373. 

Mencius,  quoted,  280. 

Menu,  the  Laws  of,  154-161. 

Merrimack  (N.  H.),  225,  227,  251,  353, 
357,  391. 

Merrimack  River,  4, 8, 19, 62, 63, 80, 81 ; 
origin  and  course  of  the,  85-92 ;  113, 
122,  150,  169,  170,  174,  177,  181,  189, 
200,  202,  203,  204;  the  Gazetteer 
quoted,  206,  207;  209,  210,  225,  226, 
227,  232,  251,  259,  260,  263,  269,  271, 
309,  321,  345,  354  ;  freshet  on  the, 
379 ;  383,  391. 

Mice,  visited  by,  on  Hoosack  Moun 
tain,  196. 

Middlesex  (Mass.),  62,  80, 226,  385. 

Mikania,  the  climbing,  43. 


Ministers,  on  Monday  morning,  123. 

Monadnock  Mountain,  173. 

MONDAY,  121-187. 

Monuments,  graveyards  and,  177; 
descendants  more  dead  than,  269. 

Moore's  Falls,  245. 

Moose-hillock,  86. 

Morning,  impressions  of,  42. 

Music,  the  suggestions  of,  183-209. 

Musketaquid  or  Grass-ground  River, 
the,  3,  8. 

"  My  books  I'd  fain  cast  off,  I  can 
not  read,"  verse,  320. 

"  My  life  has  been  the  poem  I  would 
have  writ,"  verse,  365. 

"My  life  is  like  a  stroll  upon  the 
beach,"  verse,  255. 

"My  love  must  be  as  free,"  verse, 
297. 

Mythology,  ancient  history,  60. 

Names  of  places,  longing  for  Eng 
lish,  54. 

Nashua  (N.  H.),  87,  89,  115,  116,  126, 
151,  152,  169,  170,  173,  179,  391; 
river,  the,  375. 

Nashville  (N.  H.),  175,  179. 

Naticook  Brook,  227. 

Natural  life,  the,  405. 

Nature,  adorned,  18,  19;  laws  of,  for 
man,  34;  indifference  of,  117; 
provisions  of,  for  end  of  her  crea 
tures,  236;  tame  and  wild,  337; 
and  Art,  339 :  composing  her  poem 
Autumn,  403. 

"  Nature  doth  have  her  dawn  each 
day,"  verse,  302. 

"Nature  has  given  horns,"  verse, 
242. 

Nesenkeag,  206. 

Nests,  fishes',  24,  25. 

New  England  life,  the  Arcadian  ele 
ment  in,  256. 

New  Hampshire,  85;  for  the  An 
tipodes,  leaving,  151;  man,  a,  211; 
line,  crossing  the,  377. 

New  Testament,  the,  72-75,  142; 
practicalness  of,  146. 

Newbury  (Mass.),  87. 

Newburyport  (Mass.),  87-89. 

Newfound  Lake,  87,  89. 

News,  getting  the,  from  ocean  steam 
ers,  253. 

Newspapers,  reading,  on  Hoosack 
Mountain,  194. 


INDEX 


433 


Night,  thoughts  in  the,  354. 
Night-fall,  37-40 ;  117. 
Nine- Acre  Corner,  5. 
North  Adams  (Mass.),  189. 
North  Bridge,  14,  16,  33. 
North  or  Assabet  River,  4. 
"Now  chiefly  is  my  natal  hour," 
verse,  182. 

Observatory  on  Hoosack  Mountain, 

the,  197. 
"  Oft,  as  I  turn  me  on  my  pillow 

o'er,"  verse,  384. 
On  a  Silver  Cup,  verse,  240. 
On  Himself,  verse,  241. 
On  His  Lyre,  verse,  240. 
On  Love,  verse,  242. 
On  Lovers,  verse,  243. 
"On  Ponkawtasset,  since  we  took 

our  way,"  verse,  16. 
On  Women,  verse,  242. 
Oriental  and  Occidental,  the,  147; 

exclusion    of    the,    in    Western 

learning,  148,  149;  quality  in  New 

England  life,  the,  256,  257. 
Ossian,  366-371,  393. 
Otternic  Pond,  169. 
"  Our  uninquiring  corpses  lie  more 

low,"  verse,  227. 
Ovid,  quoted,  2,  228. 

"Packed  in  my  mind  lie  all  the 
clothes,"  verse,  313. 

Pan  not  dead,  65. 

Pasaconaway,  267,  269. 

Past,  darkness  of  the,  163. 

Pawtucket  Falls,  the  lock-keeper  at, 
80;  Dam,  88;  Canal,  deepening 
the,  263. 

Pelhani  (N.  H.),  92. 

Pembroke  (N.  H.),  124. 

Pemigewasset  River,  85,86,  88,  333; 
basin  on  the,  261. 

Penacook,  now  Concord  (N.  H.), 
founding  of,  322. 

Penichook  Brook,  179,  202,  374. 

Pennyroyal,  272. 

Perch,  the  common,  26. 

Persius  Flaccus,  Aulus,  327-333. 

Philosophy,  Asiatic,  140,  141;  lofti 
ness  of  the  Oriental,  142, 143. 

Physician,  priest  and,  272. 

Pickerel,  the,  29. 

Pickerel-weed,  18. 

Pigeons,  235. 


Pilgrim's  Progress,  the  best  sermon, 

72. 

Pindar,  quoted,  259. 
Pinnacle,  Hooksett,  318,  321. 
Pioneers,  old  and  new,  124. 
Piscataqua  River,  202. 
Piscataquoag,  87,  259. 
Plaistow  (N.  H.),  185. 
Plum  Island,  86,  88,  210. 
Plutarch,  quoted,  183. 
"  Ply  the  oars!  away!  away! "  verse, 

188. 

Plymouth  (N.  H.),  89. 
Poet  and  poems,  the,  362-366;  400-403. 
Poetry,  the   nature   of,   93-98;   the 

mysticism  of  mankind,  350. 
Poet's  Delay,  The,  verse,  366. 
Political  conditions  and  news,  133. 
Polygonum,  18. 
Ponkawtasset,  16. 
Poplar  Hill,  16, 61. 
Pot-holes,  various,  261-263. 
Pout,  the  horned,  29,  30. 
Practicalness,  the  triviality  of,  145. 
Priest,  physician  and,  272. 
Prose,  a  poem  in,  404. 
Pythagoras,  quoted,  338. 

Quarles,  Francis,  quoted,  12. 

Rabbit  Island,  113. 

Raleigh,  Sir  Walter,  as  a  master  of 

style,  106. 
Read's  Ferry,  245. 
Reformers,  130. 
Religion  and  ligature,  64,  79. 
Rhexia,  the  Virginian,  18. 
Rice,  story  of  the  mountain  farmer, 

212-220. 

River  wolf,  fresh-water  or,  29. 
Rivers  of  history,  the  famous,  10. 
Roach.    See  Chivin. 
Robin    Hood   Ballads,  quoted,  121, 

174,  175. 

Romans,  vestiges  of  the,  264. 
Ross,  Sir  James  Clark,  quoted,  390. 
Ruff,  or  bream,  the,  24-26. 
Rumors  from  an  ^Eolian  Harp,  verse, 

184. 

Saddleback  Mountain,  189. 

Sadi,  quoted,  70,  80,  324;  the  life  of, 

by  Dowlat  Shah,  quoted,  415. 
St.  Anne's  of  Concord  voyageurs, 

Ball's  Hill,  the,  19. 


434 


INDEX 


Salmon,  32. 

Salmon  Brook,  167,  168,  375;  Love- 
well's  house  on,  345. 

"  Salmon  Brook,"  verse,  375. 

Sand,  tracts  of,  near  Nashua,  152;  in 
Litchfleld,  N.  H.,  208,  209;  on  Plum 
Island,  210,  211. 

Sandwich  (N.  H.),  86. 

San  jay,  quoted,  147. 

Satire  and  poetry,  328-330. 

SATURDAY,  12-40. 

Savage  instinct,  the,  55. 

Scene-shifter,  the,  118. 

Science,  386-391. 

Scriptures  of  the  world,  150. 

"Sea  and  land  are  but  his  neigh 
bors,"  verse,  279. 

Seeds,  the  use  of,  129. 

Shad,  32,  35,  36;  train-band  nick 
named  the,  33. 

Shadows,  375. 

Sheep,  alarm  of  a  flock  of,  317. 

Shelburne  Falls,  261. 

Sherman's  Bridge,  4. 

Shiner,  the,  28. 

Short's  Falls,  257. 

Silence,  417-420. 

"  Since  that  first '  Away  !  Away  ! '" 
verse,  200. 

Skies,  the,  383. 

Smith,  Captain  John,  quoted,  91, 
92. 

Smith's  River,  87. 

Snake-head,  18. 

Soapwort  gentian,  the,  18. 

Society-Islanders,  gods  of,  55,  66. 

Soldier,  a  young,  334. 

"  Some  tumultuous  little  rill,"  verse, 
62. 

Sophocles,  the  Antigone  of,  quoted, 
139. 

Soucook,  87. 

Souhegan,  87,  357 ;  or  Crooked  River, 
231. 

South  Adams  (Mass.),  192. 

Southborough  (Mass.),  3. 

Spenser,  Edmund,  quoted,  356. 

Springs,  river-feeding,  203. 

Squam  (N.  H.),  86,  87,  89. 

Squirrel,  the  chipping  or  striped, 
205,206. 

Squirrel  red,  206. 

Stark,  Gen.  John,  268. 

Staten  Island,  view  from,  190;  look 
ing  at  ships  from,  253. 


Sturgeon  River,  Merrimack  or,  85, 

117. 

Such  near  aspects  had  we,"  verse, 

253. 

Such  water  do  the  gods  distil," 

verse,  86. 

Suckers,  common  and  horned,  30. 
Sudbury  (Mass.),  3,  4,  5,  36,  53;  early 

church  of,  described  by  Johnson, 

9. 

Sudbury  River,  4. 
Suncook,  87. 
SUNDAY,  42-120. 

Sunday,  the  keeping  of,  63,  64,  76,  77. 
Sun-fish,  Bream,  or  Ruff,  the  fresh 
water,  24-26. 

Sunrise  on  Hoosack  Mountain,  198. 
Sunset,  416-418. 
Swamp,  the  luxury  of  standing  in  a, 

319. 
Swedenborg,  Emanuel,  68. 

Tansy,  18. 

"  That  Phaethon  of  our  day,"  103. 

"  The  Good  how  can  we  trust  ?  " 
verse,  298. 

"  The  respectable  folks,"  verse,  7. 

"  The  smothered  streams  of  love, 
which  flow,"  verse,  278. 

"  The  waves  slowly  beat,"  verse,  229. 

"  The  western  wind  came  lumbering 
in,"  verse,  180. 

"Then  idle  Time  ran  gadding  by," 
verse,  181. 

"  Then  spend  an  age  in  whetting  thy 
desire,"  verse,  111. 

"There  is  a  vale  which  none  hath 
seen,"  verse,  184. 

"  Therefore  a  torrent  of  sadness 
deep,"  verse,  183. 

"This  is  my  Carnac,  whose  un 
measured  dome,"  verse,  267. 

Thoreau,  Henry  David,  started  on 
week's  river  journey,  12;  ascent 
of  Hoosack  Mountain,  189-200; 
experience  with  an  uncivil  moun 
taineer,  214-220;  invited  to  do 
various  sorts  of  work,  324;  began 
return  voyage,  335. 

Thoreau,  John,  brother,  lines  to,  2, 
12 ;  brings  Nathan,  a  country  boy, 
to  the  boat,  308. 

Thornton's  Ferry,  174,  227,  232. 

"Thou,  indeed,  dear  swallow," 
verse,  240. 


INDEX 


435 


"  Thou  sing'st  the  affairs  of  Thebes," 

verse,  241. 
"  Though  all  the  fates  should  prove 

unkind,"  verse,  161. 
"  Thracian  colt,  why  at  me,"  verse, 

243. 

THUBSDAY,  317-355. 
"  Thus,  perchance,  the  Indian  hun 
ter,"  verse,  247. 
Time,  measurement  of  the  world's, 

346. 

To  a  Colt,  verse,  243. 
To  a  Dove,  verse,  241. 
To  a  Swallow,  verse,  240,  243. 
Traveling,  the  profession  of,  325. 
Trinity,  the,  70. 
Trumpet-weed,  18. 
Truth,  contact  with,  310. 
TUESDAY,  188-248. 
"  Turning  the  silver,"  verse,  240. 
Turpentine-makers,  Indian  capture 

of,  174. 
Tyngsborough  (Mass.),  origin  of,  113 ; 

114,  118,  123,  126,  152,  170,  174,  325, 

377,  379,  382,  384. 

Unappropriated  Land,  the,  334. 
Uncannunuc,  169,  205,  271,  308,  318, 

321,  335. 
Union  Canal,  the,  245. 

Varro,  quoted,  382. 
View,  the  point  of,  372. 
Virgil,  quoted,  93. 

Wachusett  Mountain,  169, 173. 
Walton  of  Concord  River,  the,  22. 


Wamesit,  82. 

Wannalancet,  268,  269. 

Water-lily,  the  white,  19. 

Wawatam,  the  friendship  of,  291. 

Wayland  (Mass.),  3,  4,  5,  36,  37. 

"  We  see  the  planet  fall,"  verse,  390. 

WEDNESDAY,  249-316. 

Westborough  (Mass.),  3,  32. 

"  Westford  (Mass.),  113. 

"  What  dost  thou  wish  me  to  do  to 

thee?  "  verse,  243. 
"Where  gleaming  fields  of  haze," 

verse,  234. 
"  Where'er  thou  sail'st  who  sailed 

with  me,"  verse,  2. 
White  Mountains,  the,  85,  89. 
"  Who  sleeps  by  day  and  walks  by 

night,"  verse,  41. 

Wicasuck  Island,  113, 115,  381,  382. 
Wilderness,  the  need  of,  179. 
Wilduess  and  cultivation,  55. 
Williamstown  (Mass.),  192, 197. 
Willow,  the  narrow-leaved,  18;  the 

water,  43. 

Windham  (N.  H.),  92. 
Winnipiseogee,  85,  87,  89,  90, 91. 
"With  frontier  strength  ye  stand 

your  ground,"  verse,  170. 
Wolff,  Joseph,  quoted,  60,  131. 
Wolofs,  the,  109, 138. 
"Woof  of  the  sun,  ethereal  gauze," 

verse,  229. 
Work,  quiet,  110. 
Writing,  grace  and  power  in,  108- 

111. 

Yankees,  how  first  called,  53. 


H.  O.  HOUGHTON  AND  COMPANY 

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